
Class 
Book. 



21— 



184-1 



Jlomtg, 



RELIGIOUS AND ELEGIAC. 



POEMS, 



RELIGIOUS AND ELEGIAC. 




MRS. L. H. SIGOTJRNEY. 



3* 



" If we listen to David's harp, we shall hear as many hearse-like har- 
monies as carols ; — and the pencil of inspiration hath more laboured to 
describe the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon." 

Lord Bacon. 









ROBERT TYAS, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW. 

MDCCCXLI. 



7$ ^ 3 * 



«« k 



LONDON : 
CLARKE, PRINTERS, SILVER STREET, FALCON SQUARE. 



CONTENTS. 



THE SUNDAY SCHOOL .... 

THE LOST DARLING .... 

FAITH 

THE LAST SUPPER 

THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD .... 

JOY IN BELIEVING .... 

A MOTHER'S COUNSELS . 

THE TIME TO DIE .... 

"THIS IS NOT YOUR REST" 

ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MRS. JUDSON 

THE BABE ..... 

TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY . 

BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE 

DEATH OF AN AGED CHRISTIAN 

NEW ZEALAND MISSIONARY 

DEATH OF A SISTER, AT SCHOOL 

ON THE LOSS OF A BEAUTIFUL CHILD AT TRENTON FALLS 

RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR 

THE HOPIA TREE .... 

MISTAKES ..... 

SILENT DEVOTION .... 

DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE 

THE SICK CHILD .... 

THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH . 

PASSING AWAY .... 

BURMANS AND THEIR MISSIONARY . 

APPEAL OF THE BLIND 

BENEVOLENCE ... 

A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN 

THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH 

DIVINE GOODNESS .... 

THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL 

TO A DYING INFANT 

THE TOMB ...... 

DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT . 



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48 
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61 
63 
65 
69 
71 
74 
76 
78 



VI CONTENTS. 

METHUSELAH ...... 

CHRISTIAN SETTLEMENTS IN AFRICA 
ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE 
MARRIAGE HYMN ..... 

PARTING OF THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE 
CHRISTIAN HOPE ..... 

WILBERFORCE ...... 

ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF A FATHER . 
THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER .... 

WAITING UPON THE LORD .... 

BAPTISM OF AN INFANT AT ITS MOTHER'S FUNERAL 
THE MOHEGAN CHURCH .... 

SABBATH MORNING ..... 

CONTENTMENT ..... 

'TWAS BUT A BABE . 

THE ANGELS' SONG ..... 

THE KNELL ...... 

THE MOTHER . . . . . 

DREAM OF THE DEAD ..... 

" ONLY THIS ONCE " . 

FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN . . 

BIRTH-DAY OF THE FIRST-BORN . 

THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON .... 

TRIBUTE TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS . 

DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A CLERGYMAN 

LOVE NOT THE WORLD .... 

THE COMMUNION ..... 

CHRISTMAS HYMN ..... 

BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS 

THE BAPTISM ..... 

THOUGHTS AMONG THE TREES 

MISSIONS TO AFRICA .... 

THE ORDINATION ..... 

THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME 

heaven's LESSON ..... 

THE BUBBLE ...... 

ATTENDING A FORMER PUPIL TO THE GRAVE 
MISTAKEN GUIEF ..... 



PAGE 
81 



CONTENTS. 



Vll 



PAGE 

DEATH OF MRS. H. W. L. WINSLOW, MISSIONARY IN CEYLON . . 163 

"SHOW US THE FATHER" ....... 165 

THE LOST SISTER . . . . . . • 167 

THE DEPARTED NEIGHBOUR ....... 169 

THE CONVENIENT SEASON . . . * . . . 1 72 
THE AMERICAN BISHOP . . . . . . .175 

POWER OF THE ALMIGHTY ....... 178 

*' IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD " ..... 180 

MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH . . . . . . 182 

"DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL " ...... 185 

DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN . . . . . . 186 

A MOTHER'S TEACHING ....... 188 

" TO DIE IS GAIN " . . . . . . 190 

CZZIAH ......... 192 

OUR TEACHERS ......... 194 

THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING ...... 197 

DEATH OF THE PRINCIPAL OF A RETREAT FOR THE INSANE . . 199 

THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND AMONG THE RUINS OF IONA . . 202 

true wisdom ......... 204 

on meeting several former pupils at the communion table 205 

death of a young musician ...... 207 

jotham's parable . . . . . . . . 209 

the dying eoy '........ 213 

WIFE OF A MISSIONARY AT THE GRAVE OF HER HUSBAND . . 216 

PRAYER ......... 219 

PEACE . . . . . . . . 221 

tomb of a young friend at mount auburn . . . 222 

midnight music . . . . . . . . 224 

evening by the sea-shore ...... 227 

afraid to die . . . . . . . . . 229 

departure of missionaries for ceylon . . . .231 

cry of the corannas ....... 232 

gift of a bible ........ 234 

on the death of a friend . . . . • 236 

the old man ....... 238 

death of a distinguished man . . . . 242 

"not dead, but sleepeTh" ...... 245 

PRAISE .......... 247 



CONTENTS. 



FOLLY ....!.. 

THE AGED CLERGYMAN . 

PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES TO BURMAH . 

"WHITHER SHALL I FLEE FROM THY PRESENCE'' 

DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY 

EVENING THOUGHTS . 

AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTER'S GRAVE 

DEATH-BED OF THE REV. DR. PAYSON 

MISSION HYMN ..... 

" BLESSED ARE THE DEAD " . 

TO MOURNING PARENTS .... 

SAILOR'S FUNERAL .... 

THE DYING MOTHER'S PRAYER . 

DEATH OF A MISSIONARY IN AFRICA 

DIRGE ...... 

BOY'S LAST BEQUEST .... 

THE PILGRIM ..... 

TO THE MEMORi' OF MISS HANNAH ADAMS 

THE DEPARTED FRIEND 

CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH 

THE SACRED MINSTREL . . 

"CHARITY BEARETH ALL things" 

THE RUINS OF HEROD'S PALACE 

THE TOMB OF ABSALOM 

THE WIDOW'S PRAYER. 

DEATH OF A MISSIONARY AT THE WEST 

" KEEP SILENCE " 

THE LIBRARY ..... 

SABBATH MEDITATIONS 

DEATH OP A POET .... 

life's EVENING 

A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN 

THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND 

MONODY TO MRS. HEMANS 

FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY . 

ZlNZENDORFF ..... 

NOTES ..... 



POEMS, 

RELIGIOUS AND ELEGIAC. 



THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. 



Group after group are gathering, such as prest 

Once to their Saviour's arms, and gently laid 
Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast, 

Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade ; 
Group after group glide on with noiseless tread, 

And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet, 
Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred, 

And holy words their ruby lips repeat, 
Oft with a chasten 'd glance, in modulation sweet. 

Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows 
Wan poverty hath done the work of care ; 

1 



THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. 

Look up, ye sad ones ! — 'tis your Father's house, 
Beneath whose consecrated dome you are ; 

More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare, 
And watch the gaudier forms that gaily rove, 

And deem, perchance, mistaken as you are, 
The " coat of many colours " proves His love, 

Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above. 

And ye, blest labourers in this humble sphere, 

To deeds of saint-like charity inclined, 
Who, from your cells of meditation dear, 

Go forth to guide the weak, untutor'd mind — 
Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined 

Of grateful love, one tear of contrite pain. 
Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind 

The rest of earthly sabbaths. Be your gain 
A sabbath without end, 'mid yon celestial plain. 



THE LOST DARLING. 



She was my idol. Night and day, to scan 
The fine expansion of her form, and mark 
The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-hud, start 
To sudden beauty, was my chief delight. 
To find her fairy footsteps following mine, 
Her hand upon my garments, or her lip 
Long sealed to mine, and in the watch of night 
The quiet breath of innocence to feel 
Soft on my cheek, was such a full content 
Of happiness, as none but mothers know. 

Her voice was like some tiny harp that yields 
To the slight fingered breeze, and as it held 
Brief converse with her doll, or playful soothed 
The moaning kitten, or with patient care 
Conned o'er the alphabet — but most of all, 
Its tender cadence in her evening prayer 
Thrilled on the ear like some ethereal tone 
Heard in sweet dreams. 

But now alone I sit, 
Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears 

1 b 



4 THE LOST DARLING. 

Her little robes, that once with woman's pride 

I wrought, as if there were a need to deck 

What God had made so beautiful. I start, 

Half fancying from her empty crib there comes 

A restless sound, and breathe the accustomed words, 

<c Hush ! Hash thee, dearest." Then I bend and weep- 

As though it were a sin to speak to one 

Whose home is with the angels. 

Gone to God ! 
And yet I wish I had not seen the pang 
That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white 
Settling around her lips. I would that heaven 
Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower, 
Blooming in all its freshness. 

Gone to God ! 
Be still, my heart 1 what could a mother's prayer, 
In all the wildest ecstacies of hope, 
Ask for its darling like the bliss of heaven. 



FAITH. 



Wrapt in the robe of Faith, 
Come to the place of prayer, 

And seal thy deathless vows to Him 
Who makes thy life his care. 

Doth he thy sunny skies 

O'ercloud with tempest gloom ? 

Or take the idol of thy breast, 
And hide it in the tomb ? 

Or bid thy treasur'd joys 

In hopeless ruin lie ? 
Search not his reasons, — wait his will ; 

The record is on high. 

For should he strip thy heart 

Of all it boasts on earth, 
And set thee naked and alone, 

As at thy day of birth, 



FAITH. 



He cannot do thee wrong, 



Those gifts were his at first, — 
Draw nearer to his changeless throne, 
Bow deeper in the dust. 

Calls he thy parting soul 
Unbodied from the throng ? 

Cling closer to thy Saviour's cross, 
And raise the victor song. 



THE LAST SUPPER, 



A PICTURE BY LEONAEDI DA VINCI. 



Behold that countenance, where grief and love 
Blend with ineffable benignity, 
And deep, un uttered majesty divine. 

Whose is that eye which seems to read the heart, 
And yet to have shed the tear of mortal woe ? 
Redeemer ! is it thine ? And is this feast 
Thy last on earth ? Why do the chosen few, 
Admitted to thy parting banquet, stand 
As men transfix'd with horror ? 

Ah ! I hear 
The appalling answer, from those lips divine, 
" One of you shall betray me." 

One of these ? 
Who by thy hand was nurtured, heard thy prayers, 
Received thy teachings, as the thirsty plant 
Turns to the rain of summer ? One of these ! 
Therefore, with deep and deadly paleness droops 
The loved disciple, as if life's warm spring 
Chilled to the ice of death, at such strange shock 



THE LAST SCJPPER. 

Of unimagined guilt. See, his whole soul 

Concentred in his eye, the man who walked 

The waves with Jesus, all impetuous prompts 

The honor-struck inquiry — " Is it I ? 

Lord ! is it I ? " while earnest pressing near, 

His brother's lip, in ardent echo seems 

Doubling the fearful thought. With brow upraised, 

Andrew absolves his soul of charge so fou] ; 

And springing eager from the table's foot, 

Bartholomew bends forward, full of hope, 

That by his ear, the Master's awful words 

Had been misconstrued. To the side of Christ, 

James, in the warmth of cherished friendship clings, 

Still trembling as the traitor's image steals 

Into his throbbing heart; while he, whose hand 

In sceptic doubt was soon to probe the wounds 

Of Him he loved, points upward to invoke 

The avenging God. Philip, with startled gaze, 

Stands in his crystal singleness of soul, 

Attesting innocence — and Matthew's voice, 

Repeating fervently the Master's words, 

Rouses to agony the listening group, 

Who, half incredulous, with terror, seem 

To shudder at his accents. 

All the twelve 
With strong emotion strive, save one false breast 
By Mammon seared, which, brooding o'er its gain, 



THE LAST SUPPER. 9 

Weighs thirty pieces with the Saviour's blood. 

Son of perdition ! — dost thou freely breathe 

In such pure atmosphere ? — And canst thou hide, 

'Neath the cold calmness of that settled brow, 

The burden of a deed whose very name 

Strikes all thy brethren pale ? 

But can it be 
That the strange power of this soul-harrowing scene 
Is the slight pencil's witchery ? — I would speak 
Of him who pour'd such bold conception forth 
O'er the dead canvass. But I dare not now 
Muse of a mortal's praise. Subdued I stand 
In thy sole, sorrowing presence, Son of God — 
I feel the breathing of those holy men, 
From whom thy Gospel, as on angel's wing, 
Went out through all the earth. I see how deep 
Sin in the soul may lurk, and fain would kneel 
Low at thy blessed feet, and trembling ask — 
" Lord! — is it I." 

For who may tell, what dregs 
Do slumber in his breast. Thou, who didst taste 
Of man's infirmities, yet bar his sins 
From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not 
In our temptations ; but so guide our feet, 
That our last supper in this world may lead 
To that immortal banquet by thy side, 
Where there is no betrayer. 



THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD. 



Yon pilgrim see, in vestments grey, 
Whose bleeding feet bedew his way, 
O'er arid sands, with want opprest, 
Who, toiling, knows no place of rest : 
Mourn ye, because the long-sought shrine, 
He clasps in ecstacy divine, 
And lays his load of sin and gloom 
Repentant on a Saviour's tomb ? 

Behold yon ship, with wrecking form, 
That bows her proud mast to the storm, 
Rude winds and waves, with headlong force, 
Impel her on her dangerous course ; 
The pallid crew their hope resign, 
And powerless view the surging brine : 
Mourn ye, because the tempest dies, 
And in the haven moor'd she lies ? 

— Emerging from the field of strife 
Where slaughter'd thousands waste their life, 
Yon warrior see, with gushing veins, 
Who scarce his frantic steed restrains \ 



THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD. 1 1 

The death-mist swims before his eyes 
As toward the well-known spot he flies, 
Where every fond affection lies. 
Mourn ye, because to home restor'd, 
Woman's white anus enwrap her lord, 
And tears and smiles, with varying grace, 
Fleet o'er his cherub children's face ? 

— Yet on his path of toil and woe, 
The pilgrim from the shrine must go, 
The ship amid the billows strain, 
The warrior seek the field again, 
But he, whose form to death has bow'd, 
Whose spirit cleaves the ethereal cloud, 
From him hath change and sorrow fled, — 
— Why mourn ye, then, the righteous dead ? 



JOT IN BELIEVING. 



' God desireth to have no slaves in his family." 

Rev. Dr. Hawes. 



Man asketh homage. When his foot doth stand 

On earth's high places, he exacteth fear 

From those who serve him. His proud spirit loves 

The quick observance of an abject eye 

And cowering brow. His dignity, he deems, 

Demands such aliment — and he doth show 

Its evanescence, by the food he seeks 

To give it nutriment. Yea, more than this — 

He o'er his brother rules, with scourge and chain, 

Treading out Nature's charities, till life 

To madness tortur'd, or in misery crush'd, 

Goes, an accusing spirit, back to God. 

— But He, the Eternal Ruler, willeth not 
The slavery of the soul. His claim is love, 
A filial spirit, and a song of praise. 
It doth not please Him, that his servants wear 
The livery of mourning. Peace is sown 
Along their pilgrim path — and holy hopes 



JOY IN BELIEVING. 13 

Like birds of Paradise, do sweetly pour 
Melodious measures — and a glorious faith 
Springs up o'er Jordan's wave. 

Say, is it meet 
For those who wear a Saviour's badge, to sigh 
In heathen heaviness, when earthly joys 
Quench their brief taper ? or go shrinking down 
As to a dungeon, when the gate of Death 
Opes its low valve, to show the shining track 
Up to an angel's heritage of bliss ? 



A MOTHER'S COUNSELS. 



Daughter, the Book Divine, 

To which we turn for aid, 
When prosperous skies unclouded shine, 

Or dark-wing'd storms invade, 
Is ever open to thine eye, 

Imprint it on thy soul, 
And wisdom that can never die 

Shall thy young thoughts control. 

Sweetest, the cheek of bloom, 

Alas ! how soon 'twill wear 
The clay-cold colouring of the tomb : 

Then while thine own is fair, 
Low at His feet imploring fall, 

Who loves the humble mind, 
And whose high promise is, that all 

Who early seek shall find. 

Come, ere thy hand hath wove 
The first, fresh wreaths of Spring, 



a mother's counsels. 15 

Come, ere a worn and wither 'd love 

Is all thou hast to bring, 
Remember thy Creator's power, 

While life from care is free, 
That, when the days of darkness lower, 

He may remember thee. 

Yes, give thy heart to Him, 

While budding Hope is green, 
And when thy mother's eye is dim 

To every earthly scene, 
When this fond arm that circles thee 

Must chill and powerless lie, 
Our parting tear, the pledge shall be 

Of union in the sky. 



THE TIME TO DIE. 



H There is a time to die." 

King Solomon. 



I heard a stranger's hearse move heavily 
Along the pavement. Its deep gloomy pall 
No hand of kindred or of friend upbore. 
But from the cloud that veiled his western couch, 
The lingering sun shed forth one transient ray, 
Like sad and tender farewell to some plant 
Which he had nourished. On the giddy crowd 
Went dancing in their own enchanted maze, 
Drowning the echo of those tardy wheels 
Which hoarsely warn'd them of a time to die, 

I saw a sable train in sorrow bend 
Around a tomb. — There was a stifled sob, 
And now and then a pearly tear fell down 
Upon the tangled grass. — But then there came 
The damp clod harshly on the coffin lid, 
Curdling the life-blood at the mourner's heart, 
While audibly it spake to every ear, 
" There is a time to die." 



THE TIME TO DIE. 17 

And then it seemed 
As if from every mound and sepulchre 
In that lone cemetery — from the sward 
Where slept the span-long infant — to the grave 
Of him who dandled on his wearied knee 
Three generations — from the turf that veil'd 
The wreck of mouldering beauty, to the bed 
Where shrank the loathed beggar — rose a cry 
From all those habitants of silence — Af Yea ! — 
There is a time to die." 

Methought that truth, 
In every tongue, and dialect, and tone, 
Peal'd o'er each region of the rolling globe ; 
The simoon breathed it, and the earthquake groan 'd 
A hollow, deep response ; — the avalanche 
Wrote it in terror on a snowy scroll ; — 
The red volcano belch 'd it forth in flames ; — 
Old Ocean bore it on his whelming surge ; 
And yon, pure, broad, cerulean arch grew dark 
With death's eternal darts. — But joyous man, 
To whom kind heaven the ceaseless warning sent, 
Turn'd to his phantom pleasures, and deferr'd, 
To some convenient hour, the. time to die. 



"THIS IS NOT YOUR REST." 

The Phophet Micah. 



The vines are wither 'd, O, rny love, 

That erst we taught to tower, 
And in a mesh of fragrance wove, 

Around our summer-bower. 

The ivy on the ancient wall 

Doth in its budding fade ; 
The stream is dry, whose gentle fall 

A lulling murmur made. 

The tangled weeds have chok'd the flowers : 

The trees, so lately bright, 
In all the pomp of vernal hours 

Reveal a blackening blight ; 



There is a sigh upon the gale 
That doth the willow sway, 

A murmur from the blossoms pale, 
" Arise, and come away." 



"THIS IS NOT YOUR REST." 19 

So, when this life in clouds shall hide 

Its garland fair and brief, 
And every promise of its pride 

Must wear the frosted leaf; 

Then may the undying soul attain 

That heritage sublime, 
Where comes no pang of parting pain, 

Nor change of hoary time. 



ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF 
MRS. JUDSON. 



I saw her on the strand. Beside her smil'd 
The land of birth, and the beloved home, 
With all their pageantry of tint and shade, 
Streamlet and vale. 

There stood her childhood's friends, 
Sweet sisters, who her inmost thoughts had shar'd, 
And saint-like parents, whose example rais'd 
Those thoughts to heaven. It was a strong array, 
And the fond heart clung to its rooted loves. 
But Christ had given a panoply, which earth 
Might never take away. And so she turn'd 
To boisterous ocean, and with cheerful step, 
Though moisten 'd eye, forsook the cherish 'd clime 
Whose halcyon bowers had rear'd her joyous youth. 
— I look'd again. It was a foreign shore. 
The tropic sun had laid his burning brow 
On twilight's lap. A gorgeous palace caught 
His last red ray. Hoarsely the idol-song 
To Boodh mingled with the breeze that curl'd 
Broad Irrawaddy 's tide. Why do ye point 
To yon low prison ? Who is he that gropes 
Amid its darkness, with those fetter 'd limbs ? 



ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MRS. JUDSON. 21 

Mad Pagans ! do ye thus requite the man 
Who toils for your salvation ? 

See that form 
Bending in tenderest sympathy to sooth 
The victim's sorrow. Tardy months pass by, 
And find her still intrepid at the post 
Of danger and of disappointed hope. 
Stern sickness smote her, yet, with tireless zeal, 
She bore the hoarded morsel to her love, 
Dar'd the rude arrogance of savage power, 
To plead for him, and bade his dungeon glow, 
With her fair brow, as erst the angel's smile 
Arous'd imprison 'd Peter, when his hands, 
From fetters loos'd, were lifted high in praise. 

— There was another scene, drawn by his hand 
Whose icy pencil blotteth out the grace 
And loveliness of man. The keenest shaft 
Of anguish quivers in that martyr's breast, 
Wlio is about to wash her garments white 
In a Redeemer's blood, and glorious rise 
From earthly sorrows to a clime of rest. 
— Dark Burman faces are around her bed, 
And one pale babe is there, for whom she checks 
The death-groan, clasping it in close embrace, 
Even till the heart-strings break. 

Behold he comes ! 
The wearied man of God from distant toil. 



22 ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MRS. JUDSON. 

His home, while yet a misty speck it seems, 
His straining eye detects, hut marks no form 
Of his most lov'd one, hasting down the vale, 
As wont, to meet him. 

Say, what heathen lip 
In its strange accents told him, that on earth 
Nought now remain'd to heal his wounded heart, 
Save that lone famish 'd infant ? Days of care 
Were meted to him, and long nights of grief 
Weigh 'd out, and then that little, wailing one, 
Went to her mother's hosom, and slept sweet 
'Neath the cool branches of the hopia-tree. 
Twas bitterness to think that bird-like voice, 
Which sang sweet hymns to please a father's ear, 
Must breathe no more. 

This is to be alone, 
Alone in this wide world. 

Yet not without 
A comforter. For the true heart that trusts 
Its all to Heaven, and sees its treasur'd things 
Unfold their hidden wing, and thither soar, 
Doth find itself drawn upward in their flight. 



THE BABE. 



I had a little tender flower, 

I nurs'd it in my summer bower, 

No storm disturb'd the guest ; 
And even if the pearly dew 
Hung heavy on its head, I flew 

To warm it in my breast. 

To this fond toil my days were given, 
For this, my nightly prayer to heaven 

Its tearful ardour spent ; 
A nameless pleasure soothed my care, 
I lov'd the plant, I saw 'twas fair, 

And knew by God 'twas lent. 

Yet, while I watch 'd its balmy rest, 
And warmly clasp'd it to my breast 

With rapture's thrilling tone, 
Stern Death, whose form I did not see, 
Still nearer sat and watch'd with me, 

And claim 'd it for his own. 



24 THE BABE. 

He bore it to his dreary home, 

That narrow house where all must come ; 

Its cheek how deadly pale ! 
On me, its eye imploring roll'd 
To save it from a grasp so cold, 

Ah ! what could that avail ? 

Yet though he tore it from my arms, 

And blanch 'd its bloom, and crush'd its charms, 

And o'er it heap'd the clods, 
And dimm'd the clear eyes' violet ray, 
And gave the form to worms a prey, 

It was not his, — but God's, 



TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG- LADY. 



Brilliant and beautiful ! — And can it be 
That in thy radiant eye there dwells no light — 
Upon thy cheek no smile ? — I little deemed 
At our last parting, when thy cheering voice 
Breathed the soul's harmony, what shadowy form 
Then rose between us, and with icy dart 
Wrote, H Ye shall meet no more." I little deemed 
That thy elastic step, Death's darkened vale 
Would tread before me. 

Friend, I shrink to say 
Farewell to thee. In youth's unclouded morn, 
We gaze on friendship as a graceful flower, 
And win it for our pleasure, or our pride. 
But when the stern realities of life 
Do clip the wings of fancy, and cold storms 
Rack the worn cordage of the heart, it breathes 
A healing essence, and a strengthening charm, 
Next to the hope of heaven. Such was thy love, 
Departed and deplored. Talents were thine, 
Lofty and bright, the subtle shaft of wit, 
And that keen glance of intellect which reads, 



26 TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. 

Intuitive, the deep and mazy springs 

Of human action. Yet such meek regard 

For other's feelings, such a simple grace 

And singleness of purpose, such respect 

To woman's noiseless duties, sweetly bow'd 

And tempered those high gifts, that every heart, 

Which feared their splendour, loved their goodness too . 

I see thy home of birth. Its pleasant halls 
Put on the garb of mourning. Sad and lone 
Are they who nursed thy virtues, and beheld 
Their bright expansion through each ripening year. 
To them the sacred name of daughter blent 
All images of comforter and friend, 
The fire-side charmer and the nurse of pain, 
Eyes to the blind, and, to the weary, wings. 
What shall console their sorrow, when young morn 
Upriseth in its beauty, yet no smile 
Of filial love to mark it ? — when slow eve 
Sinks down in silence, and that tuneful tone, 
So long the treasure of their listening heart, 
Uttereth no music ? 

Ah ! — so frail are we — 
So like the brief ephemeron that wheels 
Its momentary round, we scarce can weep 
Our own bereavements, ere we haste to share 
The clay with those we mourn. A narrow point 
Divides our grief- sob from our pang of death. 



TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. 27 

Down to the mouldering multitude we go, 
And all our anxious thoughts, our fevered hopes 
The sorrowing hurdens of our pilgrimage 
In deep oblivion rest. 

Then let the woes 
And joys of earth be to the deathless soul 
Like the swept dew-drop from the eagle's wing, 
When, wakiug in his strength, he sunward soars. 



BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 



' Let me be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother. ' 

2 Samuel, xix., 37. 



Son of Jesse ! — let me go, 

Why should princely honours stay me ? — 
Where the streams of Gilead flow, 
Where the light first met mine eye., 
Thither would I turn and die ; — 
Where my parents' ashes lie, 

King of Israel ! — bid them lay me. 

Bury me near my sire revered, 
Whose feet in righteous paths so firmly trod, 
Who early taught my soul with awe 
To heed the Prophets and the Law, 
And to my infant heart appeared 

Majestic as a God : — 
Oh ! when his sacred dust 
The cerements of the tomb shall burst, 
Might I be worthy at his feet to rise, 

To yonder blissful skies, 
Where angel-hosts resplendent shine, 
Jehovah ! — Lord of Hosts, the glory shall be thine. 



BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 29 

Cold age upon my breast 
Hath shed a frost like death, 
The wine-cup hath no zest, 
The rose no fragrant breath ; 
Music from my ear hath fled, 

Yet still one sweet tone lingereth there, 
The blessing that my mother shed 
Upon my evening prayer. 
Dim is my wasted eye 
To all that beauty brings, 
The brow of grace — the form of symmetry 

Are half-forgotten things ; — 
Yet one bright hue is vivid still, 
A mother's holy smile, that soothed my sharpest ill. 

Memory, with traitor- tread, 

Methinks, doth steal away 
Treasures that the mind had laid 

Up for a wintry day. 
Images of sacred power, 
Cherished deep in passion's hour, 

Faintly now my bosom stir, 
Good and evil like a dream 
Half obscured and shadowy seem, 
Yet with a changeless love my soul remembereth her, 

Yea — it remembereth her : 
Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre. 



DEATH OF AN AGED CHRISTIAN. 



I thought that death was terrible. I've seen 

His ministry in the distorted brow, 

The glazing eye, the struggle and the groan, 

With which the heart-strings break. Yet here was one 

Whose summoned breath went forth as peacefully 

As folds the spent rose when the day is done. 

Still life to her was dear ; for, with strong root 

That charity, whose fruit is happiness, 

Did grow and blossom in her ; and the light 

Of her own cheerful spirit flowing out, 

Tinged earth's brief rain- drops with the bow of heaven. 

Time had respected her, had spared her brow 

Its beauty, and her heart the unchilled warmth 

Of those affections, gentle and sublime, 

Which make the fire-side holy. Hand in hand 

With those her care had nurtured, and who joyed 

To pay their debt of gratitude, she past, 

Benign and graceful, down the vale of age, 

Wrapped up in tender love. Without a sigh, 

A change of feature, or a shaded smile, 

Site gafe her hand to the stern messenger, 



DEATH OF AN AGED CHRISTIAN. 31 

And, as a glad child seeks its father's house, 

Went home. She in her Saviour's ranks had done 

A veteran's service, and, with Polycarp, 

Might say to death, " For more than fourscore years 

He was my Lord — shall I deny him now ? " 

No ! No ! Thou could'st not turn away from him 

Who was thy hope from youth, and on whose arm 

Thy feebleness of hoary hairs was staid. 

Before his Father and the angel host 

He will adjudge thee faithful. So, farewell, 

Blessed, and full of days. No more thy prayer 

Up through the solitude of night shall rise 

To bless thy children's children — nor thy soul 

Yearn for re-union with those kindred ones 

Who went to rest before thee. 'Twas not meet 

That thou should'st longer tarry from that bliss 

Which God reserveth for the pure in heart. 



NEW ZEALAND MISSIONARY. 



"We cannot let him go. He says he is going to return to England — 
the ship is here to take him away. But no — we will keep him and make 
him our slave • not our slave to fetch wood and draw water, but our talking- 
slave. Yes — he shall be our slave, to talk to and to teach us. Keep him 
we will." — Speech of Mev. Mr. Yeates, at the Anniversary of the Church 
Missionary Society, London, May, 1835. 



'Twas night, and in his tent he lay, 

Upon a heathen shore, 
While wildly on his wakeful ear 

The ocean's billows roar ; 
'Twas midnight, and the war-club rang 

Upon his threshold stone, 
And heavy feet of savage men 

Came fiercely tramping on. 

Loud were their tones in fierce debate : 

The chieftain and his clan, — 
u He shall not go — he shall not go, 

That missionary man ; 
For him the swelling sail doth spread, 

The tall ship rides the wave, 
But we will chain him to our coast, 

Yes, he shall be our slave : 



THE NEW-ZEALAND MISSIONARY. 33 

" Not from the groves our wood to bear, 

Nor water from the vale, 
Nor in the battle-front to stand, 

Where proudest foe-men quail, 
Not the great war-canoe to guide, 

Where crystal streams turn red : 
But he shall be our slave to break 

The soul its living bread." 

Then slowly peer'd the rising moon, 

Above the forest-height, 
And bathed each cocoa's leafy crown 

In tides of living light ; 
To every cabin's grassy thatch 

A gift of beauty gave, 
And with a crest of silver cheer 'd 

Pacific's sullen wave. 

But o'er that gentle scene a shout 

In sudden clangour came, 
" Come forth, come forth, thou man of God, 

And answer to our claim : " 
So down to those dark island-men. 

He bow'd him as he spake, 
44 Behold, your servant will I be, 

For Christ, my master's sake." 



DEATH OF A SISTER, AT SCHOOL. 



Sweet sister! is it so ? And shall I see 

Thy face on earth no more ? And didst thou breathe 

The last sad pang of agonizing life 

Upon a stranger's pillow ? No kind hand, 

Of parent or of sister near, to press 

Thy throbbing temples, when the shuddering dew 

Stood thick upon them ? 

And they say my name 

Hung on thy lips 'mid the chill, parting strife. 

Ah ! — those were hallowed memories that could stir 

Thy bosom thus in death. The tender song 

Of cradle -nurture — the low, lisping prayer, 

Learned at our mother's knee — the childish sport, 

The gift divided, and the parted cake — 

Our walk to school amid the dewy grass — 

Our sweet flower-gatherings — all those cloudless hours 

Together shared, did wake a love so strong 

That time must yield it to eternity 

For its full crown. Would it had been my lot 

But with one weeping prayer to gird thy heart 

For its last conflict. Would that I had seen 



DEATH OF A SISTER, AT SCHOOL. 35 

That peaceful smile which death did leave the clay 

After his conquest o'er it. But the turf 

On thy lone grave was trodden, while I deemed 

Thee meekly musing o'er the classic page, 

Loving and loved, amid the studious band 

As erst I left thee. 

Sister ! — toils and ills 
. Henceforth are past — for knowledge without pain, 
A free translucent, everlasting tide, 
O'erflows thy spirit. Thou no more hast need 
Of man's protecting arm, for thou may'st lean 
On His unchanging throne who was thy trust, 
Even from thine early days. 

Tiswell! 'tis well! 
Saviour of souls ! I thank thee for her bliss. 



3 b 



ON THE LOSS OF A BEAUTIFUL 
CHILD AT TRENTON FALLS. 



No cloud upon the summer air, 
The forest-boughs are green and fair, 
And Trenton's foaming waters throw 
Their freshness on the vales below, 

And joyous spirits tread 
The slippery margin of the tide 
That on from plunge to plunge doth glide, 

So beautiful and dread ; 
Hark ! to a cry of wild despair 

Echoing from yon guarded dell, 
Where the imprison'd flood doth to fierce madness swell. 

Where is that lovely one, 
Of fawn-like step, and cherub air, 

And brow that knew no care ? 
Fearful torrent ! tell me where ! 
She mark'd thee with admiring eye, 



LOSS OF A CHILD AT TRENTON FALLS. 37 

Thy fringed shore, thy craggy steep, 
Thy boiling eddies, bold and deep, 
Thy white mists curtaining to the sky ; 
Where is she now ? with sorrow wild, 
I hear a mother's voice lamenting for her child. 

Thou terrible in beauty ! hold thy way, 
Foaming and full of wrath. Thy deeds shall be 
Grav'd on yon altar-piece of rugged rock, 
And every worshipper who bows to thee 
Shall read the record, and, indignant, mock 
Thy siren charms. And, henceforth, she who guides 
Some darling child along thy treacherous tides, 
Marking this trophy thou hast torn 
From the fond parents' heart, shall haste away and mourn. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 



I do remember him. His saintly voice, 
So duly lifted in the house of God, 
Comes, with the far-off wing of infant years, 
Like solemn music. Often have we hush'd 
The shrillest echo of our holiday, 
Turning our mirth to reverence as he pass'd, 
And eager to record one favouring smile, 
Or word paternal. 

At the bed of death 
I do remember him ; when one, who bore 
For me a tender love, sustain'd that pang 
Which makes the features rigid — and the eye 
Like a fix'd glassy orb. Her head was white 
With many winters — but her furrow'd brow 
To me was beautiful — for she had cheer 'd 
My lonely childhood with a changeless stream 
Of pure benevolence. His earnest tone, 
Girding her from the armory of God 
To foil the terrors of that shadowy vale 
Through which she walk'd, doth linger round me still ; 
And by that gush of bitter tears, when first 



RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 39 

Grief came into my bosom — by that thrill 
Of agony, which from the opened grave 
Rush'd wildly forth — I do remember him, 
The comforter and friend. 

When fancy's smile 
Gilding youth's scenes, and promising to bring 
The curtain'd morrow fairer than to-day, 
Enkindled wilder gaiety than fits 
Beings so frail — how oft his funeral prayer 
Over some shrouded sleeper made a pause 
In folly's song, or warn'd her roving thought 
That all man's glory was the flower of grass 
Beneath the mower's scythe. 

His fourscore years 
Sat lightly on him — for his heart was glad, 
Even to its latest pulse, with that fond love, 
Home-nurtur'd and reciprocal, which girds 
And garners up, in sorrow and in joy. 

— I was not with the weepers — when the hearse 
Stood all expectant at his pleasant door, 

And other voices from his pulpit said 
That he was not : — but yet the requiem sigh 
Of that sad organ, in its sable robe, 
Made melancholy music in my dreams. 

— And so, farewell, thou who didst shed the dew 
Baptismal on mine infancy, and lead 



40 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 

To the Redeemer's sacred board, a guest 
Timid and unassur'd — yet gathering strength 
From the blest promise of Jehovah's aid 
Unto the early seeker. 

When again 
My native spot unfolds that pictur'd chart 
Unto mine eye, which in my heart I hold, 
Rocks, woods, and waters, exquisitely blent, 
Thy cordial welcome I no more shall hear — 
Father and guide — nor can I hope to win 
Thy glance from glory's mansion while I lay 
This wild-flower garland on thine honoured tomb. 



THE HOPIA TREE, 

PLANTED OVER THE GR.WE OF MRS. ANN H. JUDSON, 



" Rest ! Rest ! — the hopia tree is green, 
And proudly waves its leafy screen 

Thy lowly bed above, 
And by thy side, no more to weep, 
Thine infant shares the gentle sleep, 

Thy youngest bud of love. 

M How oft its feeble wailing cry 
Detain'd unseal'd thy watchful eye, 

And pain'd that parting hour 
When pallid Death, with stealthy tread, 
Descried thee on thy fever-bed, 

And proved his fatal power. 

" Ah ! do I see with faded charm, 
Thy head reclining on thine arm, 
The Teacher * far away ? 

* " The last day or two of her life she lay almost motionless, on one 
side, her head reclining on her arm. Sometimes she said, ' The teacher is 
long in coming, and the new missionaries are long in coming. I must die 
alone.'" — Knoivks's Memoir. 



42 THE HOPIA TREE. 

But now, thy mission-labours o'er, 
Rest, weary clay, to wake no more, 
Till the Great Rising-Day." 

Thus spake the traveller, as he staid 
His step within that sacred shade : 

A man of God was he, 
Who his Redeemer's glory sought, 
And paused to woo the holy thought 

Beneath that hopia tree. 

The Sol wen's tide went rushing by, 
And Burmah's cloudless moon was high. 

With many a solemn star ; 
And while he mus'd, methought there stole 
An angel's whisper o'er his soul, 

From that pure clime afar, 

Where swells no more the heathen sigh, 
Nor 'neath the idol's stony eye 

Dark sacrifice is done, 
And where no more, by prayers and tears, 
And toils of agonizing years, 

The martyr's crown is won. 

Then visions of the faith that blest 

The dying saint's rejoicing breast, 

And sets the pagan free, 



THE HOPIA TREE. 43 

Came thronging on, serenely bright, 
And cheer 'd the traveller's heart that night, 
Beneath the hopia tree. 



MISTAKES. 



" Every thing that is high is not holy ; nor every desire pure ; nor all 
that is sweet, good; nor every thing that is dear to man, pleasing to 
God." 

Thomas a Kempis, 



Might we but view the shore 
Of this dim world, as from heaven's hill it gleams, 
How should we blame the tear unduly shed, 
And tax the truant joy ! How should we see, 
Amaz'd, our own mistakes : — the lowly tomb 
Of our lost idols blooming thick with flowers 
Such as the seraph's bosom wears above ; 
The slippery cliff where we have madly blown 
Ambition's victor-trump, with storm-clouds crown'd 
To wreck the unwary soul ; — wealth's hoarded gold, 
Eternal poverty ; and the meek prayer 
Of Him who knew not where to lay his head, 
An heritage of glory. 

Each desire 
Fed to fruition, till the satiate heart 
Is gorg'd with richness, sows it not the seeds 
Of sickness there ? — while He whose only rest 



MISTAKES, 45 

Was on a spear-point, who might ask for bread 
Only to find a stone, gain'd He not thus 
A mansion in the amaranthine bowers 
Of love divine ? 

Prosperity, alas ! 
Is often but another name for pride, 
And selfishness, which scorns another's woe, — 
While our keen disappointments are the food 
Of that humility which entereth heaven, 
Finding itself at home. The things we mourn 
Work our eternal gain. Then let our joys 
Be tremulous as the mimosa's leaf, 
And each affliction with a serious smile 
Be welcom'd in at the heart's open door, 
As the good patriarch met his muffled guests, 
And found them angels. 



SILENT DEYOTION. 



" The Lord is in his holy temple ; — let all the earth keep silence before 
him." 



The Lord is on his holy throne, 

He sits in kingly state ; 
Let those who for his favour seek, 

In humble silence wait. 

Your sorrows to his eyes are known, 

Your secret motives clear ; 
It needeth not the pomp of words, 

To pour them on his ear. 

Doth Death thy bosom's cell invade ? 

Yield up thy flower of grass ; 
Swells the world's wrathful billow high ? 

Bow down, and let it pass. 

Press not thy purpose on thy God, 
Urge not thine erring will, 



SILENT DEVOTION. 47 

Nor dictate to the Eternal mind, 
Nor doubt thy Maker's skill : 

True prayer is not the noisy sound 

That clamorous lips repeat, 

But the deep silence of a soul 

That clasps Jehovah's feet. 



DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE. 



Why is the green earth broken ? Yon tall grass, 
Which in its ripeness woo'd the mower's hand, 
And the wild rose, whose young buds faintly bloom 'd, 
Why are their roots uptorn P Why swells a mound 
Of new-made turf among them ? 

Ask of him 
Who in his lonely chamber weeps so long 
At morning's dawn, and evening's pensive hour, 
Whose bosom's planted hopes might scarcely boast 
More firmness than yon riven flower of grass. 

Yet hath not memory stores whereon to feed, 

When joy's young harvest fails ? as clings the bee 

To the sweet calyx of some smitten flower ? 

— Still is remembrance — grief. The tender smile 

Of young, confiding love, its winning tones, 

Its self-devotion, its delight to seek 

Another's good, its ministry to sooth 

The hour of pain, come o'er the hermit heart, 

To claim its bitterest tear. 

But that meek Faith, 
Which, all distrustful of its holiest deeds, 



DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE. 49 

So strongly clasp 'd a Saviour's feet, when Death 

Rang the crush 'd heart-strings like a broken harp, 

That hope which shed its seraph-benison 

On all who wept around, that smile which left 

Heaven's stainless semblance on the breathless clay, 

These are the tokens to the soul bereav'd, 

To gird itself invincibly, and seek 

A deathless union with the parted bride. 



THE SICK CHILD. 



Thy fever 'd anus around me, 
My little, suffering boy — 

Tis better thus with thee to watch, 
Than share in fashion's joy. 

The pale nurse-lamp is waning 

Upon the shaded hearth, 
And dearer is its light to me 

Than the gay flambeau's mirth. 

I've lov'd the merry viol 
That spurs the dancer's heel, 

And those soft tremblings of the lute 
O'er summer's eve that steal, 

But when hath richest music 

Been to my soul so dear 
As that half-broken sob of thine, 

Which tells that sleep is near ? 

I knew not half how precious 
The cup of life might be, 



THE SICK CHILD. 51 

Till o'er thy cradle-bed I knelt, 
And learn 'd to dream of thee ; 



Till at the midnight hour I found 

Thy head upon my arm, 
And saw thy full eye fix'd on mine, — 

A strong, mysterious charm ; 

Till, at thy first faint lisping, 

That tear of rapture stole, 
Which ever as a pearl had slept 

Deep in the secret soul. 

A coffin small, and funeral, 

With all their sad array, 
Gleam, as my broken slumbers fleet 

On sable wing away ; 

I see those dark-rob'd visions 
The heated brain that sear, 

And still a baby's heavy knell 
Comes booming o'er my ear. 

Cling closer, — round my bosom 

Thy feeble anns entwine, 
And, while the life-throb stirs thy heart, 

Be as a part of mine. 

4 b 



52 THE SICK CHILD. 

That start, — that cry, — that struggle ! 

My God, I am but clay ! 
Have pity on a bruised reed, 

Give thy compassions way ; 

Or send thy strength to gird me ; — 

Impart a power divine, 
To wring out sorrow's dregs, and say, 

" Lord ! not my will, but thine." 



THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. 



1 death ! how bitter is the remembrance of thee to a man that is at ease 
in his possessions." — EccUsiasticus, iv., 1. 



The rich man moved in pomp. His soul was gorged 

With the gross fulness of material things, 

So that it spread no pinion forth to seek 

A better world than this. There was a change, 

And in the sleepless chamber of disease, 

Curtained and nursed, and ill-content he lay. 

He had a wasted and an eager look, 

And on the healer's brow he fixed a glance, 

Keen - — yet imploring. 

What he greatly feared 
Had come upon him. So he went his way — 
The way of all the earth — and his lands took 
Another's name. 

Why dost thou come, Death ! 
To print the bridal chamber with thy foot, 
And leave the ruin of thy ministry, 
Where love, and joy, and hope, so late had hung 
Their diamond cressets ? 

To the cradle side 
Why need'st thou steal, changing, to thine own hue 



54 THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. 

Of ghastly pale, the youthful mother's brow ; 
And, for her nightly watching, leaving nought 
In payment but a piece of marble clay, 
And the torn heart-strings in her bleeding breast ? 

— Come to the aged, he hath sorely trod 
Time's rugged road, until his staff is broke, 
And his feet palsied, and his friends all gone ; 
Put thy cold finger on life's last faint spark, 
And scarcely gasping he shall follow thee. 

— Come to the saint, for he will meekly take 
Thy message to his soul, and welcome thee 
In Jesus' name, and bless the shadowy gate 
Which thou dost open. 

Wait awhile, Death 
For those who love this fleeting world too well ; 
Wait, till it force their hearts to turn away 
From all its empty promises, and loathe 
Its deep hypocrisy. O, wait for those 
Who have not tasted yet of Heaven's high grace, 
Nor bring them to their audit, all unclothed 
With a Redeemer's righteousness. 



PASSING AWAY. 



1 The fashion of this world passeth away." — 1 Corinthians, vii , 31. 



A Rose upon her mossy stem, 

Fair Queen of Flora's gay domain, 

All graceful wore her diadem, 

The brightest 'mid the brilliant train ; 

But evening came, with frosty breath, 
And, ere the quick return of day, 

Her beauties, in the blight of death, 

Had pass'd away. 

I saw, when morning gemmed the sky, 
A fair young creature gladly rove, 

Her moving lip was melody, 

Her varying smile the charm of love ; 

At eve I came — but on her bed 

She drooped, with forehead pale as clay — 

" What dost thou here ? " — she faintly said, 

u Passing away." 



56 PASSING AWAY. 

I looked on manhood's towering form 
Like some tall oak when tempests blow, 

That scorns the fury of the storm 
And strongly strikes its root below. 

Again I looked — with idiot cower 
His vacant eye's unmeaning ray 

Told how the mind of godlike power 

Passeth away. 

O earth ! no better wealth hast thou ? 

No balsam for the heart that bleeds ? 
Fade all thy brightest things away ? 

Fail all thy props like bruised reeds ? 
The soul made answer — " Hopes are mine 

To dwell in realms of changeless day, 
Where lips have never breathed the sound, 

" ' Passing away.' " 



BURMANS AND THEIR MISSIONARY. 



" Are you Jesus Christ's man ? Give us a writing that tells about Jesus 
Christ." — Letter of Rev. Dr. Judson. 



There is a cry in Burmah, and a rush 
Of thousand footsteps from the distant bound 
Of watery Siaru, and the rich Cathay. 
From the far northern frontier, pilgrims meet 
The central dwellers in the forest-shades, 
And on they press together. Eager hope 
Sits in their eye, and on their lips the warmth 
Of strong request. Is it for bread they seek, 
Like the dense multitude, which, fainting, hung 
Upon the Saviours words, till the third day 
Closed in, and left them hungering ? 

Not for food 
Or raiment ask they. Simply girding on 
The scanty garment o'er the weary limb, 
They pass unmarked, the lofty domes of wealth 
Inquiring for a stranger. There he stands ; 
The mark of foreign climes is on his brow ; 
He hath no power, no costly gifts to deal 
Among the people, and his lore perchance 



58 BURMANS AND THEIR MISSIONARY. 

The earth-bowed worldling with his scales of gold, 

Accounteth folly. Yet to him is raised 

Each straining eye-ball, "Tell us of the Christ! " 

And like the far-off murmur of the sea 

Lashed by the tempest, swelled their blended tone, 

" Yea. Tell us of the Christ. Give us a scroll 

Bearing his name." 

And there that teacher stood, 
Far from his native land — amid the graves 
Of his lost infants, and of her he loved 
More than his life, — yes, there he stood alone, 
And with a simple, saint-like eloquence, 
Spake his Redeemer's word. Forgot were all — 
Home, boyhood, christian-fellowship— the tone 
Of his sweet babes — his partner's dying strife — • 
Chains, perils, Burman dungeons, all forgot, 
Save the deep danger of the heathen's soul, 
And God's salvation. And methought that earth 
In all she vaunts of majesty, or tricks 
With silk and purple, or the baubled pride 
Of throne and sceptre, or the blood-red pomp 
Of the stern hero, had not aught to boast 
So truly great, so touching, so sublime, 
As that lone missionary, shaking off 
All links and films and trappings of the world, 
And in his chastened nakedness of soul 
Rising to bear the embassy of heaven. 



APPEAL OF THE BLIND. 



Sung at an Exhibition of Blind Boys. 



Ye see the glorious sun 

The varied landscape light, 
The moon, with all her starry train, 

Illume the arch of night, 
Bright tree, and bird, and flower, 

That deck your joyous way, 
The face of kindred and of friend, 

More fair, more dear than they. 

For us there glows no sun, 

No green and flowery lawn ; 
Our ray less darkness hath no moon, 

Our midnight knows no dawn ; 
The parent's pitying eye, 

To all our sorrows true, 
The brother's brow, the sister's smile, 

Have never met our view. 



60 APPEAL OF THE BLIND. 

We have a lamp within, 

That knowledge fain would light, 
And pure Religion's radiance touch 

With beams for ever bright ; 
Say, shall it rise to share 

Such radiance full and free ? 
And will ye keep a Saviour's charge, 

And cause the blind to see ? 



BENEVOLENCE. 



' The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of Hosts." 

The Prophet Haggai. 



Whose is the gold that glitters in the mine ? 
And whose the silver ? Are they not the Lord's ? 
And, lo ! the cattle on a thousand hills, 
And the broad earth with all her gushing springs, 
Are they not His who made them ? 

Ye who hold 
Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands 
By your own names, and lock your gathered gold 
From him who in his bleeding Saviour's name 
Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be 
When, like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost, 
You fall away ? 

Point out to me the forms 
That in your treasure-chambers shall enact 
Glad mastership, and revel where you toiled 
Sleepless and stem. Strange faces are they all. 

man ! whose wrinkling labour is for heirs, 



62 BENEVOLENCE. 

Thou knowest not who, thou in thy mouldering bed, 
Unkenned, unchronicled of them, shalt sleep ; 
Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave 
Thy soul of good for them. 

Now, thou may est give 
The famished food, the prisoner liberty, 
Light to the darkened mind, to the lost soul 
A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege 
With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art 
Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult 
To be co-worker with the King of Kings. 



A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS 
CHILDREN. 



Come, gather closer to my side, 

My little smitten flock, 
And I will tell of him who brought 

Pure water from the rock — 
Who boldly led God's people forth 

From Egypt's wrath and guile, 
And once a cradled babe did float, 

All helpless on the Nile. 

You're weary, precious ones, your eyes 

Are wandering far and wide — 
Think ye of her who knew so well 

Your tender thought to guide ? 
Who could to wisdom's sacred lore 

Your fixed attention claim ? 
Ah ! never from your hearts erase 

That blessed mother's name. 

'Tis time to sing your evening hymn, 
My youngest infant dove, 



64 A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 

Come, press your velvet cheek to mine, 

And learn the lay of love ; 
My sheltering arms can clasp you all, 

My poor deserted throng, 
Cling as you used to cling to her 

Who sings the angels song. 

Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain, 

Come, warble loud and clear ; 
Alas ! alas ! you're weeping all, 

You're sobbing in my ear ; 
Good-night — go, say the prayer she taught, 

Beside your little bed, 
The lips that used to bless you there 

Are silent with the dead. 

A father's hand your course may guide 

Amid the thorns of life, 
His care protect those shrinking plants 

That dread the storms of strife ; 
But who, upon your infant hearts, 

Shall like that mother write ? 
Who touch the strings that rule the soul ? 

Dear, smitten flock, good-night ! 



THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH. 



There fell no rain on Israel. The sad trees, 
Reft of their coronets, and the crisp vines, 
Aud flowers, whose dewless hosoms sought the dust, 
Mourned the long drought. The miserable herds 
Pined on, and perished 'mid the scorching fields ; 
And, near the vanished fountains where they used 
Freely to slake their thirst, the moaning flocks 
Laid their parched mouths and died. 

A holy man, 
Who saw high visions of unuttered things, 
Dwelt, in deep musing solitude, apart 
Upon the banks of Cherith. Dark winged birds, 
Intractable and fierce, were strangely moved 
To shun the hoarse cries of their callow brood, 
And night and morning lay their gathered spoils 
Down at his feet. So, of the brook he drank, 
Till pitiless suns exhaled that slender rill 
Which, singing, used to glide to Jordan's breast. 
Then, warned of God, he rose and went his way 
Unto the coast of Zidon. Near the gates 
Of Zarephath he marked a lowly cell, 
Where a pale, drooping widow, in the depth 
Of desolate and hopeless poverty, 
Prepared the last scant morsel for her son, 
That he might eat and die> 

5 



66 THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH. 

The man of God, 
Entering, requested food. Whether that germ 
Of self-denying fortitude, which stirs 
Sometimes in woman's soul, and nerves it strong 
For life's severe and unapplauded tasks, 
Sprang up at his appeal — or whether He 
Who ruled the ravens wrought within her heart, 
I cannot say ; but to the stranger's hand 
She gave the bread. Then, round the famished boy 
Clasping her widowed arms, she strained him close 
To her wan bosom, while his hollow eye 
Wondering and wistfully regarded her, 
With ill-subdued reproach. 

But blessings fell 
From the majestic guest, and every morn 
The empty store which she had wept at eve, 
Mysteriously replenished, woke such joy 
As ancient Israel felt when round their camp 
The manna lay like dew. Thus many days 
They fed, and the poor famine-stricken boy 
Looked up with a clear eye, while vigorous health 
Flushed with unwonted crimson his pure cheek, 
And bade the fair flesh o'er his wasted limbs 
Come like a garment. The lone widow mused 
Gn her changed lot, yet to Jehovah's name 
Gave not the praise ; but when the silent moon 
Moved forth all radiant, on her star-girt throne, 
Uttered a heathen's gratitude, and hailed, 



THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH. 67 

In the deep chorus of Zidonian song, 
" Astarte, Queen of Heaven ! " 

But then there came 
A day of woe. That gentle boy, in whom 
His mother lived, for whom alone she deemed 
Time's weary heritage a blessing, died. 
Wildly the tides of passionate grief broke forth, 
And on the prophet of the Lord her lip 
Called with indignant frenzy. So he came, 
And from her bosom took the breathless clay 
And bore it to his chamber. There he knelt 
In supplication that the dead might live. 

He looked upon the child. Unchang'd that cheek 

Of marble meekly on the pillow lay, 

While round the polished forehead, sunny curls 

Clustered redundantly. So sweetly slept 

Beauty and innocence in death's embrace. 

It seemed a mournful thing to waken them. 

Another prayer arose — and he whose faith 
Had power o'er nature's elements, to seal 
The dripping cloud, to wield the lightning's dart, 
And soon, from death escaping, was to soar 
On car of flame up to the throne of God, 
Long, long, with labouring breast, and lifted eyes, 
Solicited in anguish. On the dead 
Once more the prophet gazed. A rigour seemed 

5 b 



68 THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH. 

To settle on those features, and the hand, 
In its immoveable coldness, told how firm 
Was the dire grasp of the insatiate grave. 
The awful seer laid down his humbled lip 
Low in the dust, and his whole being seemed 
With concentrated agony to pour 
Torth in one agonizing, voiceless strife 
Of intercession. 

Look upon the boy ! 
There was a trembling of the parted lip, 
A sob — a shiver — from the half-sealed eye 
A flash like morning — and the soul came back 
To its frail tenement. 

Ah, who shall set 
Limits to prayer, if it hath entered heaven 
And won a spirit down to its dense robe 
Of earth again. 

The holy prophet raised 
The renovated child, and on that breast 
Which gave the life-stream of its infancy 
Laid the fair head once more. 

If ye would know 
Aught of that wildering trance of ecstacy, 
Go, ask a mother s heart, but question not 
So poor a thing as language. Yet the soul 
Of her of Zarephath, in that blest hour, 
Believed — and with the kindling glow of faith 
Turned from vain idols to the living God. 



DIVINE GOODNESS. 



f Thy mercies are new every morning and fresh every moment." 

David. 



Oh Thou, who, bounteous to their need, 
Dost all earth's thronging pilgrims feed, 
Dost bid for them, in every clime, 
The pregnant harvest know its time, 
The flocks in verdant pastures dwell, 
The corn aspire, the olive swell, 
Fain would we bless that sleepless eye 
That doth our hourly wants descry. 

— Thou pour'st us, from the nested grove, 
The minstrel melody of love, 
Thou giv'st us of the fruitage fair 
That summer's ardent sons prepare, 
Of honey from the rock that flows, 
And of the perfume of the rose, 
And of the breeze whose balm repairs 
The sick'ning waste of toil and cares. 



70 DIVINE GOODNESS. 

— And though, perchance, the in grate knee 

Bends not in praise or prayer to Thee, 

Though sin that stole, with traitor-sway, 

E ven Peter's loyalty away, 

May strongly weave its seven-fold snare. 

And bring dejection and despair ; 

Yet not the morn with cheering eye 

More duly lights the expecting sky, 

Nor surer speeds on pinion light 

Each measur'd moment's trackless flight, 

Than comes thy mercy's kind embrace 

To feeble man's forgetful race. 



THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL. 



From a Picture. 



Thou may'st not raise her from that couch, kind nurse, 
To bind those clustering tresses, or to press 
The accustomed cordial. Thou no more shalt feel 
Her slight arms twining faintly round thy neck 
To prop her weakness. That low whispered tone 
No more can thank thee, but the earnest eye 
Speaks, with its tender glance, of all thy care 
By night and day. Henceforth thy mournful task 
Is brief: to wipe the cold and starting dew 
From that pure brow, to touch the parching lip 
With the cool water-drop — and guide the breeze 
That, fragrant, through her flowers, comes travelling on 
Freshly to lift the poor heart's broken valve, 
Which, gasping, waits its doom. 

Mother ! thy lot 
Hath been a holy one ; upon thy breast 
To cherish that fair bud, to share its bloom, 
Refresh its langour with the rain of Heaven, 
And give it back to God. The hour is come ; 
Thy sleepless night-watch o'er her infancy 



72 THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL. 

Bore its own payment. Thou hast never known 

For her, thy child, burden, or toil, or pang, 

But what the full fount of maternal love 

Did wash away, leaving those diamond sands 

Which memory from her precious casket strews. 

Behold, her darkening eye doth search for thee 

As the bowed violet through some chilling screen 

Turns toward the sun that cheered it. Well, thine heart 

Hath read its language from her cradle-hour ; 

What saith it to thee ? 

" Blessed one, farewell ! 
I go to Jesus. Early didst thou teach 
My soul the way, from yonder Book of Heaven. 
Come soon to me, sweet guide." 

Ah, gather up 
The glimmering radiance of that parting smile — 
Prolong the final kiss — hang fondly o'er 
The quivering pressure of that marble hand, 
Those last, deep tokens of a daughter's love. 
Weep, but not murmur. She no more shall pine 
Before thine eyes in smothered agony, 
And waste away, and wear the hectic flush 
That cheats so long, to wake a keener pain. 
Beside thy hearth she is a guest no more ; 
But in heaven's beauty shalt thou visit her, 
In heaven's high health. 

Call her no longer thine, 
Thou could'st not keep Consumption's moth away 



THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL. 73 

From her frail web of life. Thou could'st not guard 

Thy darling from the lion. All thy love, 

In the best armour of its sleepless might, 

The spoiler trampled as a reed. Give thanks 

That she is safe with Him who hath the power 

O'er pain, and sin, and death. Mourner, give thanks. 



TO A DYING INFANT. 



Go to thy rest, my child ! 

Go to thy dreamless bed, 
Gentle and undefiled, 

With blessings on thy head ; 
Fresh roses in thy hand, 

Buds on thy pillow laid, 
Haste from this fearful land, 

Where flowers so quickly fada 

Before thy heart might learn 

In waywardness to stray, 
Before thy foot could turn 

The dark and downward way ; 
Ere sin might wound the breast, 

Or sorrow wake the tear, 
Rise to thy home of rest, 

In yon celestial sphere. 

Because thy smile was fair, 
Thy lip and eye so bright, 



TO A DYING INFANT. 70 

Because thy cradle-care 

Was such a fond delight, 
Shall Love, with weak embrace, 

Thy heavenward flight detain ? 
No ! Angel, seek thy place 

Amid yon cherub-train. 



THE TOMB. 



'■' So parted they ; the angel up to heaven, 
And Adam to his bower." Milton. 



This is the parting place ; this narrow house, 
With its turf roof and marble door, where none 
Have entered and returned. If earth's poor gold 
E'er clave unto thee, here unlade thyself; 
For thou didst bring none with thee to this world, 
Nor may 'st thou bear it hence. Honours hast thou,- 
Ambition's shadowy gatherings? Shred them loose 
To the four winds, their natural element. 

Yea, more, thou must unclasp the living ties 
Of strong affection. Hast thou nurtured babes ? 
And was each wailing from their feeble lip 
A thorn to pierce thee ? every infant smile, 
And budding hope, a spring of ecstacy ? 
Turn, turn away, for thou henceforth to them 
A parent art no more ! Wert thou a wife ? 
And was the arm on which thy sj hit leaned 
Faithful in all thy need ? Yet must thou leave 
This fond protection, and pursue alone 
Thy shuddering pathway down the vale of death. 



THE TOMB. 77 

Friendship's free intercourse — the promised joys 
Of soul-implanted, soul-confiding love, 
The cherished sympathies which every year 
Struck some new root within thy yielding breast, — 
Stand loose from all, thou lonely voyager 
Unto the land of spirits. 

Yea, even more ! 
Lay down thy body ! Hast thou worshipped it 
With vanity's sweet incense, and wild waste 
Of precious time ? Did beauty bring it gifts, 
The lily brow, the full resplendent eye, 
The tress, the bloom, the grace, whose magic power 
Woke man's idolatry ? O lay it down, 
Earth's reptile banqueters have need of it. 

Still may'st thou bear, o'er Jordan's stormy wave, 
One blessed trophy, — if thy life hath striven 
By penitence and faith such boon to gain, — 
The victor palm of Christ's atoning love : 
And this shall win thee entrance when thou stand'st 
A pilgrim at heaven's gate. 



DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT. 



" The way is long," the father said, 
While through the western wild he sped, 

With eager, searching eye ; 
" Cheer ye, my babes," the mother cried, 
And drew them closer to her side, 

As frown 'd the evening sky. 



- 1 © 



Just then, within the thicket rude, 
A log-reai'd cabin's roof they view'd, 

And its low shelter bless 'd, 
On the rough floor, their simple bed, 
In weariness and haste they spread, 

And laid them down to rest. 

On leathern hinge the doors were hung, 
Undeck'd with glass the casement swung, 

The smoke-wreath stain'd the wall ; 
And here they found their only home, 
Who once had rul'd the spacious dome, 

And pac'd the pictur'd hall. 



DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT. 79 

But hearts with pure affections warm, 
Unmurmuring at the adverse storm, 

Did in that cell ahide, 
And there the wife her husband cheer 'd, 
And there her little ones she rear'd, 

And there in hope she died. 

Still the lone man his toil pursued, 
While 'neath his roof so low and rude, 

A gentle daughter rose, 
As peering through some rifted rock, 
Or blooming on a broken stock, 

The blushing sweet-briar grows. 

With tireless hand, the board she spread, 
The Holy Book at evening read, 

And when, with serious air, 
He saw her bend so sweetly mild, 
And lull to sleep the moaning child, 

He bless'd her in his prayer, 

Bnt stern disease his footsteps staid, 
And down the woodman's axe he laid, 

The fever-flame was high ; 
No more the forest fear'd his stroke, 
He fell, as falls the rugged oak, 

Beneath the whirlwind's eye. 



80 ' DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT. 

His youngest girl, his fondest pride, 
His baby, when the mother died, 

How desolate she stands ! 
While, gazing on his death-struck eye, 
His kneeling sons with anguish cry, 

And clasp his stiiFen'd hands. 

Who hastes his throbbing head to hold ? 
Who bows to chafe his temples cold, 

In beauty's opening prime ? 
That blessed daughter, meek of heart, 
Who for his sake a matron's part 

Had borne before her time. 

That gasp, that groan, 'tis o'er, 'tis o'er, 
The manly breast must heave no more, 

The heart no longer pine : 
Oh, Thou who feed'st the raven's nest, 
Confirm once more thy promise blest, 

" The fatherless are mine." 



METHUSELAH. 



"And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine 
years — and he died'' — Genesis. 



And was this all ? He died ! He who did wait 

The slow unfolding of centurial years, 

And shake that hurden from his heart which turns 

Oar temples white, and in his freshness stand 

Till cedars mouldered and firm rocks grew grey — 

Left he no trace upon the page inspired, 

Save this one line — He died ! 

Perchance he stood 
Till all who in his early shadow rose 
Faded away, and he was left alone, 
A sad, long-living, weary-hearted man, 
To fear that Death, remembering all beside, 
Had sure forgotten him. 

Perchance he roved 
Exulting o'er the ever- verdant vales, 
While Asia's sun burned fervid on his brow ; 
Or 'neath some waving palm-tree sate him down, 
And in his mantling bosom nursed the pride 

6 



82 METHUSELAH. 

That mocks the pale destroyer, and doth think 
To live for ever. 

What majestic plans, 
What mighty Babels, what sublime resolves, 
Might in that time-defying bosom spring, 
Mature, and ripen, and cast off their fruits 
For younger generations of bold thought 
To wear their harvest diadem, while we, 
In the poor hour-glass of our seventy years, 
Scarce see the buds of some few plants of hopes, 
Ere we are laid beside them, dust to dust. 

Yet whatsoe'er his lot, in that dim age 
Of mystery, when the un wrinkled world had drank 
No deluge-cup of bitterness, whate'er 
Were earth's illusions to his dazzled eye, 
Death found him out at last, and coldly wrote, 
With icy-pen on life's protracted scroll, 
Nought but this brief unflattering line — He died. 

Ye gay flower- gatherers on time's crumbling brink 
This shall be said of you, howe'er ye vaunt 
Your long to-morrows in an endless line — 
Howe'er amid the gardens of your joy 
Ye hide yourselves, and bid the pale king pass, 
This shall be said of you at last — He died ; 
Oh, add one sentence more — He lived to God. 



CHRISTIAN SETTLEMENTS IN AFRICA. 



Winds ! what have ye gather 'd from Afric's strand, 
As ye swept the breadth of that fragrant land ? 
The breath of the spice-bud, the rich perfume 
Of balm, and of gum, and of floweret's bloom ? 
" We have gather 'd nought, save a pagan prayer, 
And the stifling sigh of the heart's despair," 

Waves ! what have ye heard on that ancient coast 
Where Egypt the might of her fame did boast, 
Where the statue of Memnon saluted the morn, 
And the pyramids tower in their giant scorn ? 
" We have heard the curse of the slave-ship's crew, 
And the shriek of the chain 'd as the shores withdrew." 

Stars ! what have ye seen with the glancing eye, 
From your burning thrones in the sapphire-sky ? 
" We have mark'd young hope as it brightly glow'd 
On Afric's breast, whence the blood-drop flow'd, 
And we chanted the hymn which we sang at first, 
When the sun from the midnight of chaos burst." 



6 b 



ON THE DEATH OE DR. ADAM CLARKE. 



Know ye a prince hath fallen ? They who sit 
On gilded throne, with rubied diadem, 
Caparisoned and guarded round, till death 
Doth stretch them 'neath some gorgeous canopy, 
Yet leave no foot-prints in the realm of mind — 
Call them not kings — they are but crowned men. 

Know ye a prince hath fallen ? Nature gave 

The signet of her royalty, and years 

Of mighty labour won that sceptred power 

Of knowledge, which from unborn ages claims 

Homage and empire, such as time's keen tooth 

May never waste. And the high grace of God 

So witnessed with his spirit, so impelled 

To deeds of Christian love, that there is reared 

A monument for him, which hath no dread 

Of that fierce flame which wrecks the solid earth. 

I see him 'mid the Shetlands, spreading forth 
The riches of the Gospel — kneeling low 
To light its lamp in every darkened hut : — 
Not in the armour of proud learning braced, 



ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE. 85 

But with a towel girded — as to wash 
The feet of those whom earthly princes scorn. 
I see him lead the rugged islander 
Even as a brother, to the Lamb of God, 
Counting his untaught soul more precious far 
Than all the lore of all the lettered world. 

I hear his eloquence — but deeper still, 
And far more eloquent, there comes a dirge 
O'er the hoarse wave : " All that we boast of man 
Is as the flower of grass." 

Farewell — Farewell ! 
Pass on with Wesley, and with all the great 
And good of every nation. Yea ! — pass on 
Where the cold name of sect, which sometimes throws 
Unholy shadow o'er the heaven-warmed breast. 
Doth melt to nothingness — and every surge 
Of warring doctrine, in whose eddying depths, 
Earths charity was drowned, is sweetly lost 
In the broad ocean of eternal love. 



MARRIAGE HYMN. 



Not for the summer-hour alone, 
When skies resplendent shine, 

And youth and pleasure fill the throne, 
Our hearts and hands we join ; 

But for those stern and wintry days 

Of peril, pain, and fear, 
When Heavens wise discipline doth make 

This earthly journey drear. 

Not for this span of life alone, 

Which as a hlast doth fly. 
And, like the transient flower of grass, 

Just blossom, droop, and die ; 

But for a being without end, 

This vow of love we take : 
Grant us, God ! one home at last, 

For our Redeemer's sake. 



PARTING OF THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 



The time had come. The stern clock struck the hour, 
Each long-lov'd haunt had drank her mute farewell. 
The vine-wrapp'd walk, the hillock's tufted crown, 
The nurtur'd plants, that in the casement smil'd, 
Had taken a blessing from her loving eye 
For the last time. But now the climax came. 

— And so she rose, and with a fond embrace 
Folded her gentle sister, who had been 

A second self, up from the cradle dream, 
And hung upon her brother's neck as one 
Who neath the weight of love's remembrances 
Doth look on language as a pow T erless thing. 

— Methought she linger 'd long, as if to gain 
Respite from some more dreaded pang, that frown 'd 
Appalling, though unfelt. For, near her side, 
With eye close following where her darling mov'd, 
The widow'd mother stood. And so she laid 

Her head on that dear breast where 'every pain 
Of infancy was sooth 'd. And there arose 



88 PARTING OF THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 

A wild, deep sob of weeping — such as breaks 
Upon the ear of death, when he doth rend 
The nerve, fast rooted in the fount of life. 

— Tis o'er. That bitterness is past. Young bride, 
No keener dreg shall quiver on thy lip, 

Till the last ice-cup cometh. 

Then she turn'd 
To him who was to be sole shelterer now, 
And plac'd her hand in his, and raised her eye 
One moment upward, whence her strength did come, 
And with a steadfast step passed forth to take 
Her life-long portion in a heathen clime. 

— O Love and Faith ! twin-sentinels, who guard, 
One this drear earth, and one the gate of heaven, 
How glorious are ye, when in woman's heart 

Ye make that trembling hold invincible ! 

Ye both were there — and so she went her way 

A tearful victor. 

Yet to me it seem'd 
Thus, in the flush of youth and health, to taste 
Death's parting, was a strange, unnatural thing ; 
And that the lofty martyr, who doth yield 
His body to the fire's fierce alchymy 
But one brief hour, hath lighter claim on heaven, 
For high endurance, than the tender bride 
Who from her mother's bosom lifts her head 
To bide the buffet of a pagan clime ; 



PARTING OF THE MISSIONARY'S BRIDE. 89 

And nurse her frail babes neath the bamboo thatch, 
Bearing the sorrow of her woman's lot 
Perchance for many years. 

Thus must it seem 
To the trim worldling, in the broad green way 
Loitering, and reckless where that way may lead. 
Heart, is it thus with thee ? 

Go, pour thyself 
In penitence to Him who heeded not 
The cross on Calvary, so the lost might live : 
Look to thine own slack service, meted out 
And fashion 'd to thine ease, and let the zeal 
That nerv'd the parting of that pale young bride 
Be as a probe, to search thy cold content. 



CHRISTIAN HOPE. 



" If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things that are from above, 
where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God. Set your affections on 
things above ; for ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God." 

St. Paul, 



If with the Lord your hope doth rest, 
With Christ who reigns above, 

Loose from its bonds your captive breast, 
And heavenward point its love. 

Yes, heavenward. Ye're of holy birth, 

Bid your affections soar 
Above the vain delights of earth, 

Which, fading, bloom no more. 

Seek ye some pure and thornless rose ? 

Some friend with changeless eye ? 
Some fount whence living water flows ? 

Go, seek those things on high. 

Thither bid Hope a pilgrim go, 
And Faith her mansion rear, 



CHRISTIAN HOPE. 91 

Even while amid this world of woe 
Ye shed the stranger's tear. 

If Folly tempts, or sin allures, 

Be dead to all their art, 
So shall eternal life be yours 

When time's brief years depart. 



WILBERFORCE. 



I heard loud praise of heroes. But I saw 
The blood-stain on their tablet. Then I marked 
A torrent rushing from its mountain height, 
Bearing the uptorn laurel, while its strength 
Among the arid sands of Vanitv 
Did spend itself, and, lo ! a warning voice 
Sighed o'er the ocean of E ternity, 
u Behold the warrior s glory." 

History came, 
Sublimely soaring on her wing of light, 
And many a name of palatine and peer, 
Monarch and prince, on her proud scroll she bore, 
Blazoned by fame. But 'mid the sea of time, 
Helmet and coronet and diadem 
Rose boastful up, and shone, and disappeared, 
Like the white foam-crest on the tossing wave, 
Forgotten, while beheld. 

I heard a knell 
Toll slow amid the consecrated isles 
Where slumber England's dead. A solemn dirge 
Broke forth amid the tomb of kings, and said 



WILBERrORCE. 93 

That man was dust. And then a nation's tears 
Fell down like rain, for it was meet to mourn. 
But from the land of palm-trees, where doth flow 
Sweet incense forth from grove, and gum, and flower, 
Came richer tribute, breathing o'er that tomb 
A prostrate nation's thanks. 

Yes, Afric knelt, 
That mourning mother, and throughout the earth 
Taught her unletter'd children to repeat 
The name of Wilberforce, and bless the spot 
Made sacred by his ashes. Yea, the World 
Arose upon her crumbling throne, to praise 
The lofty mind that never knew to swerve 
Though holy truth should summon it to meet 
The frown of the embattled universe. 

And so I bowed me down in this far nook 
Of the far West, and proudly traced the name 
Of Wilberforce upon my country's scroll, 
To be her guide, as she unchained the slave, 
And the bright model of her sons who seek 
True glory. And from every village-haunt 
And school, where rustic science quaintly reigns, 
I called the little ones, and forth they came 
To hear of Afric's champion, and to bless 
The firm in purpose and the full of days. 



ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF A 
FATHER. 



Shall we not render thanks for him 

Whose sorrows all are o'er ? 
Whose footsteps leave the storm-wash 'd sands 

Of this terrestrial shore ? 
Who to the garner of the blest, 

In yon immortal land, 
Was gather 'd, as the ripen 'd sheaf 

Doth meet the reaper's hand ? 

Yet precious was that reverend man, 

And to his arm I clung, 
Till more than fourscore weary years 

Their shadows o'er him flung ; 
Not lonely or unlov'd he dwelt, 

Though earliest friends had fled, 
For sweet affections sprang anew 

When older roots were dead. 

There lies the Holy Book of God, — 
His oracle and guide, 



ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF A FATHER. 95 

Where last my children read to him, 

The page still open wide, 
Yet where he bent to hear their voice 

Is but a vacant chair, 
A lone staff standing by its side. 

They call — he is not there ! 

He is not there, my little ones ! 

So suddenly he fled, 
They cannot bring it to their minds 

That he is of the dead. 
Yet oft the hymns he sang with them, 

So tunefully and slow, 
Shall wake sad echo in their souls, 

Like parting tones of woe. 

There was his favourite noon-day seat, 

Beneath yon trellis'd vine, 
To mark the embryo clusters swell, 

The aspiring tendrils twine ; 
Or, lightly leaning on his staff, 

With vigorous step he went 
A little way among the flowers, 

With morning dews besprent. 

How dear was every rising sun 

That cloudless met his eye ; 
And, nightly, how his grateful prayer 

Rose upward, warm and high, — 



96 ANNIVERSARY OP THE DEATH OF A FATHER. 

For freely to his God he gave 

The blossom of his prime, 
So He forgot him not amid 

The water-floods of time. 

The cherish'd memories of the past, 

How strong they burn'd, and clear, 
Prompting the tale the listening boy 

Still held his breath to hear, — 
How a young cradled nation woke 

To grasp the glittering brand, 
And strangely raise the half-knit arm, 

To brave the mother-land. 

Those stormy days ! — those stormy days ! ■ 

When, with a fearful cry, 
The blood-stain 'd earth at Lexington 

Invok'd the avenging sky, 
When in the scarce-drawn furrow 

The farmer's plough was staid, 
And for the gardener's pruning-hook 

Sprang forth the warrior's blade. 

The glorious deeds of Washington, 

The chiefs of other days ! 
Another lip is silent now, 

That us'd to speak their praise ; 
Another link is stricken 

From the living chain that bound 






ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OP A FATHER. y 

The legends of an ancient race 
Our thrilling hearts around. 

We gaze on where the patriarchs stood, 

In ripen 'd virtue strong, 
How shall we dare to fill the place 

That they have fill'd so long ? 
How on the bosoms of our race 

Enforce the truths they breath 'd, 
Or wear that mantle of the skies 

They to our souls bequeath'd ? 

But ah ! to think that breast is cold, 

Whose sympathetic tone 
Responded to my joys and woes, 

As though they were its own, — 
To know the prayer that was my guard, 

My pilot o'er the sea, 
Must never, in this vale of tears, 

Be lifted more for me. 

There was no frost upon his hair, 

No anguish on his brow, 
Those bright, brown locks, my pride and care, 

Methinks I see them now, 
Methinks that beaming smile I see, 

In love and patience sweet, — 
O father ! must that smile no more 

My entering footsteps greet ? 

7 



98 ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OE A FATHER. 

Yet wrong we not that messenger 

Who gathered back the breath, 
Calling him ruthless spoiler, stern, 

And fell destroyer, death ? 
His touch was like the angel's 

Who comes at close of day 
To lull the willing flowers asleep 

Until the morning ray. 

And so they laid the righteous man 

'Neath the green turf to rest, 
And blessed were the words of prayer 

That fell upon his breast, 
For sure it were an ingrate's deed 

To murmur or repine, 
That such a life, my sire, was clos'd 

By such as death as thine. 

But thou, our God, who know'st our frame, 

Whose shield is o'er us spread, 
When every idol of our love 

Is desolate and dead ; 
Father and mother may forsake, 

Yet be Thou still our trust, — 
And let thy chastenings cleanse the soul 

From vanity and dust. 



THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER. 



I saw a dark procession slowly wind 
'Mid funeral shades, and a lone mourner stand 
Fast by the yawning of the pit that whelm'd 
His bosom's idol. 

Then the sable scene 
Faded away, and to his alter'd home 
Sad fancy follow'd him, and saw him fold 
His one, lone babe, in agoniz'd embrace, 
And kiss the brow of trusting innocence, 
That in its blessed ignorance wail'd not 
A mother lost. Yet she who would have watch'd 
Each germ of intellect, each bud of truth, 
Each fair unfolding of the fruit of Heaven, 
With thrilling joy, was like the marble cold, 

— There were the flowers she planted, blooming fair, 
As if in mockery, — there the varied stores 
That in the beauty of their order charm 'd 
At once the tasteful and the studious hour, 
Pictures, and tinted shells, and treasur'd tomes ; 
But the presiding mind, the cheerful voice, 

7 b 



100 THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER. 

The greeting glance, the spirit-stirring smile, 
Fled, fled for ever. 

And he knoweth all ! 
Hath felt it all, deep in his tortur'd soul, 
Till reason and philosophy grew faint, 
Beneath a grief like his. Whence hath he then 
The power to comfort others, and to speak 
Thus of the resurrection ? 

He hath found 
That hope which is an anchor to the soul, 
And with a martyr-courage holds him up 
To bear the will of God. 

Say, ye who tempt 
The sea of life, by summer-gales impell'd, 
Have ye this anchor ? Sure a time will come 
For storms to try you, and strong blasts to rend 
Your painted sails, and shred your gold like chaff 
O'er the wild wave ; and what a wreck is man 
If sorrow find him unsustain'd by God. 



WAITING UPON THE LORD. 



1 1 will wait upon the Lord, that hideth his face." 

Isaiah. 



Where'er thine earthly lot is cast, 

Whate'er its duties prove, 
To toil neath penury's piercing blast, 

Or share the cell of love, 
Or 'mid the pomp of wealth to live, 

Or wield of power the rod, 
Still as a faithful servant strive 

To wait alone on God. 

Should disappointment's blighting sway 

Destroy of joy the bloom, 
Till one by one thy hopes decay 

In darkness and the tomb, 
Should Heaven its cheering smile withhold 

From thy disastrous fate, 
And foes arise like billows bold, — 

Still, on Jehovah wait. 

When timid dawn her couch forsakes, 
Or noon-day splendours glide, 



102 WAITING UPON THE LORD. 

Or eve her curtain'd pillow takes, 
While watchful stars preside, 

Or midnight drives the throngs of care 
Far from her ebon throne, 

Unwearied in thy fervent prayer 
Wait thou on God alone. 

But should He still conceal his face 

Till flesh and spirit fail, 
And bid thee darkly run the race 

Of Time's receding vale, 
With what a doubly glorious ray 

His smile will light that sky 
Where ransom'd souls rejoicing lay 

Their robes of mourning by. 



BAPTISM OF AN INFANT AT ITS 
MOTHER'S FUNERAL. 



Whence is that trembling of a father's hand, 
Who to the man of God doth bring his babe, 
Asking the seal of Christ ? — Why doth the voice 
That uttereth o'er its brow the Triune Name 
Falter with sympathy ? — And, most of all, 
Why is yon coffin-lid a pedestal 
For the baptismal font ? 

Again I asked. 
But all the answer was those gushing tears 
Which stricken hearts do weep. 

For there she lay, 
The fair, young mother in that coffin-bed, 
Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat 
With trembling tenderness, at every touch 
Of love or pity, flushed the cheek no more. 

Tears were thy baptism, thou unconscious one, 



And Sorrow took thee at the gate of life 
Into her cradle. Thou may'st never know 
The welcome of a nursing mother's smile, 
When, in her wondering ecstacy, she marks 



104 BAPTISM OF AN INFANT. 

A thrilling growth of new affections spread 
Fresh greenness o'er the soul. 

Thou may'st not share 
Her hallowed teaching, nor suffuse her eye 
With joy, as the first germs of infant thought 
Unfold, in lisping sound. 

Yet wilt thou walk 
Even as she walked ? breathing on all around 
The warmth of high affections purified, 
And sublimated by that Spirit's power 
Which makes the soul fit temple for its God ? 

Then may'st thou, in a brighter world, behold 

That countenance which the cold grave did veil 
Too early from thy sight, and the first tone 
That bears a mother's greeting to thine ear 
Shall be Heaven's minstrelsy. 



THE MOHEGAN CHURCH. 



A remnant of the once-powerful tribe of Mohegan Indians have their 
residence in the vicinity of the city of Norwich, Connecticut ; and, on the 
ruins of an ancient fort in their territory, a small church has been erected — 
principally through the influence of benevolent females. 



Once o'er those hills, with verdure spread, 
The red-browed hunter's arrow sped, 
And on those waters, sheen and blue, 
He freely launch'd his light canoe, 
While through the forests glanced like light 
The flying wild deer's antler bright. 
— Ask ye for hamlet's peopled bound, 
With cone-roofed cabins circled round ? 
For chieftain grave — for warrior proud, 
In nature's majesty unbowed ? 
You've seen the fleeting shadow jfly, 
The foam upon the billows die, 
The floating vapour leave no trace — 
Such was their path — that fated race. 

Say ye that kings, with lofty port, 
Here held their stern and simple court ? 



106 THE MOHEGAN CHURCH. 

That here, with gestures rudely bold, 
Stern orators the throng controlled ? 
— Methinks, even now, on tempest wings, 
The thunder of their war-shout rings, 
While upward floats, in dazzling spire, 
The redness of their council fire. 

No ! — no ! — in darkness rest the throng, 
Despair hath checked the tide of song, 

Dust dimmed their glory's ray. 
But can these stanch their bleeding wrong ? 
Or quell remembrance, fierce and strong ? 

Recording angel — say ! 

I marked where once a fortress frowned, 
High o'er the blood-cemented ground, 
And many a deed that savage tower 
Might tell to chill the midnight hour. 
But now, its ruins strangely bear 
Fruits that the gentlest hand might share ; 
For there a hallowed dome imparts 
The lore of heaven to list'ning hearts ; 
And forms like those which lingering staid 
Latest neath Calvary's awful shade, 
And earliest pierced the gathered gloom 
To watch a Saviour's lowly tomb, 
Such forms have soothed the Indian's ire, 
And bade for him that dome aspire. 



THE MOHEGAN CHURCH. 107 

Now, where tradition, ghostly pale, 
With ancient horrors loads the vale, 
And, shuddering, weaves, in crimson loom, 
Ambush, and snare, and torture-doom, 
There shall the peaceful prayer arise, 
And tuneful hymns invoke the skies. — 

Crush 'd race ! — so long condemned to moan, — 

Scorn 'd — rifled — spiritless — and lone, 

From pagan rites, from sorrow's maze, 

Turn to these temple-gates with praise ; 

Yes, turn, and bless the usurping band 

That rent away your fathers' land ; 

Forgive the wrong — suppress the blame, 

And view, with Faith's fraternal claim, 

Your God — your hope — your heaven the same. 



SABBATH MORNING. 



See ! heaven wakes earth. There is an answering sigh 
From the soft winds, as they unfurl their wings 
Impalpable, and touch the dimpling streams 
Which the lithe willows kiss, and through the groves 
Make whispering melody. Me thinks the sea 
Murmureth in tone subdued, and nature smiles 
As if within her raptured breast she caught 
The breath of Deity. 

Hail ! hallowed morn, 
That binds a yoke on vice. Drooping her head, 
She by her quaint hypocrisy doth show 
How beautiful is virtue. Eve will light 
Her orgies up again — but at this hour 
She trembleth and is still. Humility, 
From the cleft rock where she hath hid, doth mark 
The girded Majesty of God go by, 
And, kneeling, wins a blessing. Grief foregoes 
Her bitterness — and round the tear-wet urn 
Twines sweet and simple flowers. But, most, firm faith 



SABBATH MORNING. 109 

Enjoys this holy season. She doth lift 
Her brow, and talk with seraphs, till the soul 
That by the thraldom of the week was bowed, 
And crushed, and spent, like the enfranchised slave, 
Doth leap to put its glorious garments on. 



CONTENTMENT. 



Think'st thou the steed that restless roves 
O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves, 

With wild, unbridled hound, 
Finds fresher pasture than the bee 
On thymy bank, or vernal tree, 
Intent to store her industry 

Within her waxen round ? 

Think'st thou the fountain, forc'd to turn 
Through marble vase, or sculptur'd urn, 

Affords a sweeter draught 
Than that which, in its native sphere, 
Perennial, undisturb'd, and clear, 
Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer, 

And wake his grateful thought ? 

Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold 
The worldling's pomp, and miser's gold, 

Obtains a richer prize 
Than he who in his cot, at rest, 
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, 
And bears the promise in his breast 

Of treasure in the skies ? 



'TWAS BUT A BABE. 



I asked them why the verdant turf was riven 
From its young rooting ; and with silent lip 
They pointed to a new-made chasm among 
The marble-pillared mansions of the dead. 

Who goeth to his rest in yon damp couch ? 

The tearless crowd pass'd on — u 'Twas but a babe/ 

A babe ! — and poise ye, in the rigid scales 

Of calculation, the fond bosom's wealth ? 

Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh 

Such merchandise as moth and rust corrupt, 

Or the rude robber steals ? Ye mete out grief, 

Perchance, when youth, maturity, or age, 

Sink in the thronging tomb ; but when the breath 

Grows icy on the lip of innocence 

Repress your measured sympathies, and say 

" 'Twas but a babe." 

What know ye of her love 
Who patient watcheth, till the stars grow dim 
Over her drooping infant, with an eye 
Bright as unchanging hope, if his repose ? 
What know ye of her woe who sought no joy 



112 'twas but a babe. 

More exquisite than on his placid brow 

To trace the glow of health, and drink at dawn 

The thrilling lustre of his waking smile ? 

Go, ask that musing father, why yon grave, 
So narrow, and so noteless, might not close 
Without a tear ? 

And though his lip be mute, 
Feeling the poverty of speech to give 
Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow, 
And the deep agonizing prayer that loads 
Midnight's dark wing to Him, the God of strength, 
May satisfy thy question. 

Ye, who mourn 
Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes 
That decked the lost one's form, call back a tide 
Of alienated joy, can ye not trust 
Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care 
Passeth a mother's love ? Can ye not hope. 
When a few hasting years their course have run, 
To go to him, though he no more on earth 
Returns to you ? 

And when glad faith doth catch 
Some echo of celestial harmonies, 
Archangels' praises, with the high response 
Of cherubim and seraphim, think — 
Think that vour babe is there. 



THE ANGELS' SONG. 



( They heard a voice from heaven, saying, ' Come up hither.' '' 



" Ye have a land of mist and shade, 

Where spectres roam at will, 
Dense clouds your mountain-cliffs pervade, 

And damps your valleys chill, 
But ne'er has midnight's wing of woe 

Eclipsed our changeless ray ; — 
Come hither, if ye seek to know 

The bliss of perfect day. 

" Doubt, like the bohan-upas, spreads 

A blight where'er ye tread, 
And hope, a wailing mourner, sheds 

The tear o'er harvests dead ; 
With us no traitorous foe assails 

Where love her home would make; 
In heaven the welcome never fails, — 

Come, and that warmth partake. 

8 



114 THE ANGELS' SONG. 

" Time revels 'mid your boasted joys, 

Death dims your brightest rose, 
And sin your bower of peace destroys — 

Where will ye find repose ? 
Ye're wearied in your pilgrim-race, 

Sharp thorns your path infest, — 
Come hither, — rise to our embrace, 

And Christ shall give you rest." 

'Twas thus, methought, at twilight hour, 

The angels' lay came down, 
Like dews upon the drooping flower, 

When droughts of summer frown ; 
How richly o'er the ambient air 

Swelled out that music free ! 
Oh ! — when the pangs of death I bear, 

Sing ye that song to me. 



THE KNELL. 



A silver sound was on the summer air, 
And yet it was not music. The sweet birds 
Went warbling wildly forth, from grove and dell, 
Their thrilling harmonies ; yet this low tone 
Chimed not with them. But in the secret soul 
There was a deep response, troubling the fount 
Where bitter tears are born. Too well I knew 
The tomb's prelusive melody. I turned, 
And sought the house of mourning. 

Ah, pale friend, 
Who speak'st not — look'st not — dost not give the 

hand — 
Hath love so perished in that pulseless breast, 
Once its own throne ? 

Thou silent, changeless one, 
The seal is on thy virtues — now no more 
Like ours to tremble in temptation's hour, 
Perchance to fall. Fear hath no longer power 
To chill thy life-stream, and frail hope doth fold 
Her rainbow wing, and sink to rest with thee. 
How good to be unclothed, and sleep in peace ! 

8 b 



116 THE KNELL. 

Friend ! — Friend ! — I grieve to lose thee. Thou hast 

been 
The sharer of my sympathies, the soul 
That prompted me to good, the hand that shed 
Dew on my drooping virtues. In all scenes 
Where we have dwelt together — walking on 
In friendship's holy concord, I am now 
But a divided being. Who is left 
To love as thou hast loved ? 

Yet still, to share 
A few more welcomes from thy soft blue eye, 
A few more pressures of thy snowy hand, 
And ruby lip, could I enchain thee here 
To all that change and plenitude of ill 
Which we inherit ? Hence, thou selfish grief ! 
Thy root is in the earth, and all thy fruits 
Bitter and baneful. Holy joy should spring 
When pure hearts take their portion. 

Go, beloved ! 
First, for thou wert most worthy. — I will strive, 
As best such frail one may, to follow thee. 



THE MOTHER. 



" It may be autumn, yea, winter with the woman — but with the 
mother, as a mother, it is always spring." 

Sermon of the Mev. Thomas Cobbett, at Lynn, 1665. 



I saw an aged woman bow 

To weariness and care, 
Time wrote his sorrows on her brow, 

And 'mid her frosted hair. 

Hope from her breast had torn away 
Its rooting, scathed and dry; 

And on the pleasures of the gay 
She turned a joyless eye. 

What was it that like sunbeam clear 

O'er her wan features run, 
As, pressing towards her deafened ear, 

I named her absent son ? 

What was it ? Ask a mother's breast, 
Through which a fountain flows 



118 THE MOTHER. 

Perennial, undisturb'd, and blest, — 
By winter never froze. 

What was it ? Ask the King of kings, 

Who hath decreed, above, 
That change should mark all earthly things, 

Except a mother's love. 



DREAM OF THE DEAD. 



Sleep brought the dead to me. Their brows were kind, 
And their tones tender, and, as erst, they blent 
Their sympathies with each familiar scene. 
It was my earthliness that robed them still 
In their material vestments ; for they seemed 
Not yet to have put their glorious garments on. 
Methought, 'twere better thus to dwell with them 
Than with the living. 

'Twas a chosen friend, 
Beloved in school-day's happiness, who came, 
And put her arm through mine, and meekly walked, 
As she was wont, where'er I willed to lead, 
To shady grove, or river's sounding shore, 
Or dizzy cliff, to gaze enthralled, below, 
On wide-spread landscape and diminished throng. 
One, too, was there, o'er whose departing steps 
Night's cloud hung heavy ere she found the tomb ; 
One, to whose ear no infant lip, save mine, 
E'er breathed the name of mother. 

In her hour 
Of conflict with the spoiler, that fond word 



120 DREAM OF THE DEAD. 

Fell with my tears upon her brow in vain — 

She heard not, heeded not. But now she flew, 

Upon the wing of dreams, to my embrace, 

Full of fresh life, and in that beauty clad 

Which charmed my earliest love. Speak, silent shade ! 

Speak to thy child ! But with capricious haste 

Sleep turned the tablet, and another came, 

A stranger-matron, sicklied o'er and pale, 

And mournful for my vanished guide I sought. 

Then, many a group in earnest converse flocked, 
Upon whose lips I knew the burial clay 
Lay thick ; for I had heard its hollow sound, 
In hoarse reverberation, " Dust to dust ! * 

They put a fair, young infant in my arms, 
And that was of the dead. Yet still it seemed 
Like other infants. First, with fear it shrank, 
And then in changeful gladness smiled, and spread 
Its little hands in sportive laughter forth. 
So I awoke, and then those gentle forms 
Of faithful friendship and maternal love 
Did flit away, and life, with all its cares, 
Stood forth in strong reality. 

Sweet dream, 
And solemn ! let me bear thee in my soul 
Throughout the live-long day, to subjugate 
My earth-born hope. I bow me at your names, 



DREAM OF THE DEAD. 121 

Sinless, and passionless, and pallid train ! 
The seal of truth is on your breasts, ye dead ! 
Ye may not swerve, nor from your vows recede, 
Nor of your faith make shipwreck. Scarce a point 
Divides you from us, though we fondly look 
Through a long vista of imagined years, 
And, in the dimness of far distance, seek 
To hide that tomb whose crumbling verge we tread. 



ONLY THIS ONCE." 

Exodus, x., 17. 



" Only this once." — The wine-cup glowed 
All sparkling with its ruby ray, 

The bacchanalian welcome flowed, 
And folly made the revel gay. 

Then he, so long, so deeply warned, 
The sway of conscience rashly spumed, 

His promise of repentance scorned, 
And, coward-like, to vice returned. 

" Only this once." — The tale is told — 
He wildly quaffed the poisonous tide ; 

With more than Esau's madness, sold 
The birth-right of his soul — and died. 

I do not say that breath forsook 
The clay, and left its pulses dead, 

But reason in her empire shook, 
And all the life of life was fled. 



"ONLY THIS ONCE." 123 

Again his eyes the landscape viewed, 
His limbs again their burden bore, 

And years their wonted course renewed, 
But hope and peace returned no more. 

Then angel-eyes with pity wept 

When he whom virtue fain would save, 

His sacred vow so falsely kept, 
And strangely sought a drunkard's grave. 

" Only this once." — Beware — beware ! 

Gaze not upon the blushing wine, 
Repel temptation's siren snare, 

And, prayerful, seek for strength divine. 



FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN. 



There was a throng within the temple-gates, 
And more of sorrow on each thoughtful brow 
Than seein'd to fit the sacred day of praise. 
Neighbour on neighbour gaz'd, and friend on friend, 
Yet few saluted ; for the sense of loss 
Weigh'd heavy in each bosom. Aged men 
Bowed down their reverend heads in wondering woe. 
That he who so retain'd the ardent smile 
And step elastic of life's morning prime, 
Should fall before them. Stricken at his side 
Were friendships of no common fervency 
Or brief endurance ; for his cheering tone 
And the warm pressure of his hand, restor'd 
Young recollections, scenes of boyhood's bliss, 
And the unwounded trust of guileless years. — 
— The men of skill, who cope with stern disease, 
And wear Hygeia's mantle, offering still 
Fresh incense at her shrine, with sighs deplore 
A brother and a guide. But can ye tell 
How many now amid this gather 'd throng 



FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN. 126 

In tender meditations deeply muse, 

Coupling his image with their gratitude ? 

He had stood with them at the gate of death, 

And pluck 'd them from the spoiler's threatening grasp, 

Or, when the roses from their pilgrimage 

Were shorn, walk'd humbly with them neath the cloud 

Of Gods displeasure. Such remembrances 

Rush o'er their spirits with a whelming tide, 

Till in the heart's deep casket tribute tears 

Lie thick, like pearls. And doubt not there are those 

'Mid this assembly, in the scanty robes 

Of penury half wrapt, who well might tell 

Of ministrations at their couch of woe, 

Of toil-spent nights, and timely charities, 

Uncounted, save in heaven. 

'Tis well ! — Tis well ! 
The parted benefactor justly claims 
Such obsequies. Yet let the Gospel breathe 
Its strain sublime. A hallow 'd hand hath cull'd 
From the deep melodies of David's lyre, 
And from the burning eloquence of Paul, 
Balm from the mourner's wound. But there's a group 
Within whose sacred home yon lifeless form 
Had been the centre of each tender hope, 
The soul of every joy. Affections pure 
And patriarchal hospitality, 
Like household deities, presiding, spread 
Their wings around, making the favour'd cell 



126 FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN. 

As bright a transcript of lost Eden's bliss, 

As beams below. Now round that shaded hearth 

The polish 'd brow of radiant beauty droops, 

Like the pale lily-flower, by pitiless storms 

Press'd and surcharg'd. There too are sadden'd eyes 

More eloquent than words, and bursting hearts ; 

Earth may not heal such grief. 'Tis heard in heaven. 



BIRTH-DAI OF THE FIRST-BORN. 



Thy first-born's birth-day, Mother ! 

That well-remember 'd time 
Returneth, when thy heart's deep joy 

Swell 'd to its highest prime. 

Thou hast another treasure, 
There in the cradle-shrine, 

And she who near its pillow plays., 
With cheek so fair, is thine. 

But still, thy brow is shaded, 
The fresh tear trickleth free, 

Where is that first-born darling ? 
Young Mother, where is she ? 

And, if she be in heaven, 

She, who with goodness fraught, 

So early on her Father-God 
Repos'd her trusting thought, 

And, if she be in heaven, 

The honour how divine, 
To yield an angel to His arms 

Who gave a babe to thine. 



THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON. 



Look back, look back, ye grey-hair d worshippers, 

Who to this hill-top fifty years ago 

Came up with solemn joy. Withdraw the folds 

Which curtaining time hath gather 'd o'er the scene, 

And show its colouring. The dark cloud of war 

Faded to fitful sun-light, — on the ear, 

The rumour of red battle died away, 

And there was peace in Zion. So a throng 

O'er a faint carpet of the spring's first green 

Were seen in glad procession hasting on, 

To set a watchman on these sacred walls. 

Each eye upon his consecrated brow 

Was fondly fix'd, for in its pallid hue, 

In its deep, thought- worn, spiritual lines, 

They trac'd the mission of the crucified, 

The hope of Israel. High the anthem swell'd, 

Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts, 

Who in his bounteous goodness thus vouchsaf'd 

To beautify his temple. 

The same strain 
Riseth once more ; but where are they who pour'd 



THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON. 129 

Its tones melodious, on that festal day ? 
Young men and maidens of the tuneful lip, 
The bright in beauty, and the proud in strength, 
With bosoms fluttering to illusive hope, 
Where are they ? Can ye tell, ye hoary ones, 
Who, few, and feebly leaning on the staff, 
Bow down, where erst with manhood's lofty port 
Ye tower 'd as columns ? They have sunk away, 
Brethren and sisters, from your empty grasp, 
Like bubbles on the pool, and ye are left, 
With life's long lessons furrow'd on your brow. 

Change worketh all around you. The lithe twig 
That in your boyhood ye did idly bend 
Maketh broad shadow, and the forest-king, 
Arching majestic o'er your school-day sports, 
Mouldereth, to sprout no more. The little babe 
Ye as a plaything dandled, of whose frame 
Perchance ye spake as most exceeding frail 
And prone to perish like the flower of grass, 
Doth nurse his children's children on his knee. 

— But still your ancient shepherd's voice ye hear, 
Tho' age hath quell'd its power, and well those tones 
Of serious, saintly tenderness do stir 
The springs of love and reverence. As your guide 
He in the heavenward path hath firmly walk'd, 
Bearing your joys and sorrows in his breast, 

9 



130 THE HALE-CENTURY SERMON. 

And on his prayers. He at your household hearths 
Hath spoke his Master's message, while your babes, 
Listening, imbibed as blossoms drink the dew ; 
And when your dead were buried from your sight, 
Was he not there ? 

His scatter 'd locks are white 
With the hoar-frost of time, but in his soul 
There is no winter. He, the uncounted gold 
Of many a year's experience richly spreads 
To a new generation, and methinks 
With high prophetic brow doth stand sublime 
Like Moses 'tween the living and the dead, 
To make atonement. God's unclouded smile 
Sustain thee, patriarch ! like a flood of light 
Still brightening, till, with those whom thou hast taught 
And warn'd in wisdom, and with weeping love 
Led to the brink of Calvary's cleansing stream, 
Thou strike the victor-harp o'er sin and death. 



TRIBUTE TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS. 



"All ye that were about Mm, bemoan him, and all ye that know his 
name, say, how is the strong staff broken, — and the beautiful rod?" 

The Prophet Jeremiah. 



And can it be, — and can it be, that thou art on thy bier ? 

But yesterday in all the prime of life's unspent career ! 

I've seen the forest's noblest tree laid low, when lightnings 
shine, 

The column in its majesty torn from the temple-shrine, 

Yet little deem'd that ice so soon would check thy vital 
stream, 

Or the sun that soar'd without a cloud, thus veil its noon- 
day beam. 

I've seen thee in thy glory stand, while all around was 

hush'd, 
And seraph-wisdom from thy lips in tones of music gush'd, 
For thou with willing hand didst lay, at morning's dewy 

hour, 
Upon the altar of thy G od thy beauty and thy power ; 
Thou, for the helpless sons of woe, didst plead with 

words of flame, 
And boldly strike the rocky heart in thy Redeemer's name. 

9 b 



132 TRIBUTE TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS. 

And, lo ! that withering race who fade as dew 'neath 

summer's ray, 
Who, like uprooted weeds, are cast from their own earth 

away, 
Who trusted to a nation's vow, yet found that faith was vain, 
And to their fathers' sepulchres return no more again ; 
They need thy blended eloquence of lip, and eye, and brow, 
They need the righteous for a shield ; why art thou ab- 
sent now P 

Long shall thine image freshly dwell beside their native 

streams, 
And, 'mid their wanderings far and wide, illume their 

alien dreams, 
For Heaven to their sequester'd haunts thine early steps 

did guide, 
And the Cherokee hath heard thy prayer his cabin-hearth 

beside, 
The Osage orphan sadly breath'd her sorrows to thine ear, 
And the stern warrior knelt him down with strange. 

repentant tear. 

I see a consecrated throng of youthful watchmen rise, 
Each girding on for Zion's sake their heaven-wrought 

panoplies ; 
These, in their solitudes obscure, thy generous ardour 

sought, 
And gathering with a tireless hand, up to the temple 

brought, 






TRIBUTE TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS. 133 

These, while the altar of their God they serve with 

hallow'd zeal, 
Shall wear thy memory on their heart, an everlasting seal. 

I hear a voice of wailing from the islands of the sea, 
Salvation's distant heralds mourn on heathen shores for 

thee; 
Thy constant love, like Gilead's halm, refresh'd their 

weary mind, 
And with the blessed E van's name thine own was strongly 

twin'd, 
But thou, from this illusive scene, hast like a vision fled, 
Just wrapp'd his mantle o'er thy breast, then join'd him 

with the dead. 

Farewell ! we yield thee to the tomb, with many a bitter 

tear, 
Tho' 'twas not meet a soul like thine should longer tarry 

here, 
Fond, clustering hopes have sunk with thee, that earth 

can ne'er restore, 
Love casts a garland on thy turf, that may not blossom 

more ; 
But thou art where each dream of hope shall in fruition 

fade, 
And love, immortal and refin'd, glow on without a shade. 



DEATH OF THE TOE OF A CLERGYMAN 

DURING THE SICKNESS OF HER HUSBAND. 



Dark sorrow brooded o'er the pastor's home, 
The prayer was silent, and the loving group 
That sang their hymn of praise at even and morn 
Now droop'd in pain, — or with a noiseless step 
Tended the sick. It was a time of woe : 
Days measur'd out in anguish, and drear nights 
Mocking the eye that waited for the dawn. 

They who from youth, by hallow'd vows conjoin 'd, 
Had borne life's burdens with united arm, 
And, side by side, its adverse fortunes foil'd, 
Apart, — an agonizing warfare wag'd 
With nature's stern destroyer. Tidings pass'd 
From couch to couch, — how stood the doubtful strife 
'Twixt life and death. They might not lay their hand 
Upon each other's throbbing brow, — or breathe 
The words of comfort, for disease had set 
A gulf between them. 

Hark ! what sound appall'd 
The suffering husband ? 'Twas a mourner's sob 
Beside his bed. 



DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A CLERGYMAN. 135 

" My mother will not speak, 
They say she's dead" 

Art thou the messenger, 
Poor pallid boy ! that the dear love which sooth 'd 
The cradle moan, — and on thro' all thy life 
Would still have clung to thee untired, unchanged, 
Is blotted out for ever ? Thou dost tell 
A loss thou canst not measure. 

She, the friend, 
The mother, imag'd in those daughters' hearts, 
First, dearest, best beloved, — who joy'd to walk 
The meek companion of a man of God, 
Hath given her hand to that destroyer's grasp 
Who rifleth the clay cottage, — sending forth 
The immortal habitant. Fearless she laid 
Earth's vestments by. 

And thou, whose tenderest trust 
With an unwounded confidence was seal'd 
In that cold breast so long, lift up thy soul, — 
" She is not here, — but risen." Show the faith 
Which thou hast preach 'd to others, by its power 
In the dark night of trouble. Take the cross, 
And from thy stricken heart pour freshly forth 
The spirit of thy Lord, teaching thy flock 
To learn Jehovah's lessons, — and be still. 



LOVE NOT THE WORLD. 



To gain the friendship of the world, 

How vain the ceaseless strife ; 
We sow the sand, we grasp the wind, 

We waste the life of life. 

Perchance some giddy height we gain, 

Some gilded treasure show, — 
The footing fails, the shadow 'scapes, 

We sink in deeper woe. 

Yet, baffled, still the toil we try, 

The eager chase renew, 
Even though the portals of the grave 

Yawn on our startled view. 

But Thou whose pitying mercy's tide 

Is like the unfathom'd sea, 
Thy love was waiting for our souls, 

That would not turn to Thee ; 

Thy hand was stretch'd, Thy voice was heard, 

Thy fold was open wide, 
Ah ! who the straying sheep can save 

That shuns the Eternal Guide ? 



THE COMMUNION. 



" Master ! it is good to be here." 

Mark, ix., 5. 



They knelt them side by side ; the hoary man 
Whose memory was an age, and she whose cheek 
Gleam 'd like that velvet which the young moss-rose 
Puts blushing forth from its scarce sever 'd sheath. 
There was the sage, — whose eye of science spans 
The comet in his path of fire, — and she 
Whose household duty was her sole delight 
And highest study. On the chancel clasp 'd, 
In meek devotion, were those bounteous hands 
Which pour forth charities, unask'd, untir'd, — 
And his which roughly win the scanty bread 
For his young children. There the man of might 
On bended knee, fast by his servant's side, 
Sought the same Master, — brethren in one faith, 
And fellow -pilgrims. 

See yon wrinkled brow, 
Where care and grief for many a year have trac'd 
Alternate furrows, — bow'd so near those lips, 
Which but the honey and the dew of love 



138 THE COMMUNION. 

Have nourish 'd. And, for each, eternal health 
Descendeth here. 

Look ! look ! as yon deep veil 
Is swept aside, what an overwhelming page 
Disease hath written with its pen of pain. 
Ah, suffering sister, thou art hasting where 
No treacherous hectic plants its funeral rose : 
Drink thou the wine-cup of thy risen Lord, 
And it shall nerve thee for thy toilsome path 
Through the dark valley of the shade of death. 

— Tis o'er. A holy silence reigns around. 
The organ slumbers. The sweet, solemn voice 
Of him who dealt the soul its heavenly food 
Turns inward, like a wearied sentinel, 
Pillowing on thought profound. 

Then every head 
Bends low in parting worship, — mute, and deep, 
The whisper of the soul. And who may tell 
In that brief, silent space, how many a hope 
Is born that hath a life beyond the tomb. 

— So hear us, Father ! in our voiceless prayer, 
That at thy better banquet all may meet, 

And take the cup of bliss, and thirst no more. 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



Thou who, once an infant stranger, 
Honour 'd this auspicious morn, 

Thou who, in Judea's manger, 
Wert this day of woman born, 

Thou whom wondering sages offer 'd 
Costly gifts, and incense sweet, 

Take our homage, humbly proffer 'd, 
Grateful kneeling at thy feet. 

Thou whose path a star of glory 

Gladly hasted to reveal, 
Herald of salvation's story, 

Touch our hearts with equal zeal : 

Thou at whose approach was given 
Welcome from the angels' lyre, 

Teach our souls the song of heaven, 
Ere we join their tuneful choir. 



BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS, 

THE ONLY CHILDREN OF THEIR PARENTS. 



They're here, in this turf-bed — those tender forms, 
So kindly cherish'd, and so fondly loved, 
They re here. 

Sweet sisters ! pleasant in their lives, 
And not in death divided. Sure 'tis meet 
That blooming ones should linger here and learn 
How quick the transit to the silent tomb. 

I do remember them, their pleasant brows 
So mark'd with pure affections, and the glance 
Of their mild eyes, when, in the house of God, 
They gathered up the manna that did fall, 
Like dew, around. 

The eldest parted first, 
And it was touching, even to tears, to see 
The perfect meekness of that child-like soul, 
Turning, 'mid sorrow's chastening, to its God, 
And loosening every link of earthly hope, 
To gird an angel's glorious garments on. 
The younger lingered for a little while, 



BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS. 141 

Drooping and beautiful. Strongly the nerve 
Of that lone spirit clasped its parent-prop, 
Yet still in timid tenderness embraced 
The Rock of Ages— while the Saviour's voice 
Confirmed its trust : " Suffer the little ones 
To come to me." 

And then her sister's couch 
Undrew its narrow covering — and those forms 
Which, side by side, on the same cradle-bed 
So oft had shared the sleep of infancy, 
Were laid on that clay pillow, cheek to cheek 
And hand to hand, until the morning break 
Which hath no night. 

And ye are left alone, 
Who nurtured those fair buds, and often said 
Unto each other, in the hour of care, 
<s These same shall comfort us for all our toil." 
Yes, ye are left alone. It is not ours 
To heal such wound. Man hath too weak a hand, 
All he can give is tears. 

, But He who took 
Your treasures to His keeping, — He hath power 
To bear you onward to that better land, 
Where none are written childless, and torn hearts 
Blend in a full eternity of bliss. 



THE BAPTISM. 



'Twas near the close of that blest day, when, with me- 
lodious swell, 

To crowded mart and lonely vale, had spoke the sabbath 
bell, 

While on a broad, unruffled stream, with fringed verdure 
bright, 

The westering sunbeam richly shed a tinge of crimson 
light. 

When, lo ! a solemn train appeared, by their loved 
pastor led, 

And sweetly rose the holy hymn, as toward that stream 
they sped ; 

And he its cleaving, crystal breast, with graceful move- 
ment trod, 

His steadfast eye upraised, to seek communion with its 
God. 

Then, bending o'er his staff, approached that willow- 
shaded shore, 
A man of many weary years, with furrowed temples hoar; 



THE BAPTISM. 143 

And faintly breathed his trembling lip — " Behold, I fain 

would be 
Buried in baptism with my Lord, ere death shall summon 



With brow benign, like Him whose hand did wavering 
Peter guide, 

The pastor bore his tottering frame through that trans- 
lucent tide, 

And plunged him neath the shrouding wave, and spake 
the Triune name, 

And joy upon that withered face, in wondering radiance 
came. 

And then advanced a lordly form, in manhood's towering 

pride, 
Who from the gilded snares of earth had wisely turned 

aside, 
And, following in His steps who bowed to Jordan's startled 

wave, 
In deep humility of soul, this faithful witness gave. 

Who next ? — A fair and fragile form, in snowy robe doth 

move, 
That tender beauty in her eye that wakes the vow of 

love — 



144 THE BAPTISM. 

Yea, come, thou gentle one, and arm thy soul with 

strength divine, 
This stern world hath a thousand darts to vex a breast 

like thine. 



Beneath its smile a traitor's kiss is oft in darkness bound — 
Cling to that Comforter who holds a balm for every 

wound ; 
Propitiate that Protector's care who never will forsake, 
And thou shalt strike the harp of praise, even when thy 

heart-strings break. 

Then, with a firm, unshrinking step, the watery path she 
trod, 

And gave, with woman's deathless trust, her being to her 
God; 

And when all drooping from the flood she rose, like lily- 
stem, 

Methought that spotless brow might wear an angel's 
diadem. 

Yet more ! Yet more ! — How meek they bow to their 

Redeemer's rite, 
Then pass with music on their way, like joyous sons of 

light; 



THE BAPTISM. 145 

Yet lingering on those shores I staid, till every sound was 

hushed, 
For hallowed musings o'er my soul, like spring-swollen 

rivers rushed. 

Tis hetter, said the voice within, to bear a Christian's 

cross, 
Than sell this fleeting life for gold, which death shall 

prove but dross — 
Far better, when yon shrivelled skies are like a banner 

furled, 
To share in Christ's reproach, than gain the glory of the 

world. 



10 



THOUGHTS AMONG THE TREES. 



"The retiring of the mind into itself is the state most susceptible of 

divine impressions." 

Lord Bacon. 



How beautiful you are, green trees ! green trees ! 
How nobly beautiful ! Fain would I rest 
'Neath the broad shadow of your mantling arms, 
And lose the world's unquiet imagery 
In the soft mist of dreams. Your curtaining veil 
Shuts out the revelry, and toil, that chafe 
The city's denizens. Man wars with man, 
And brethren forage on each other's hearts, 
Throwing their life-blood in that crucible 
Which brings forth gold. 

Unceasingly we strive, 
And gaze at gaudes, and cling to wind-swept reeds, 
Then darkly sink, and die. 

But here ye stand, — 
Your moss-grown roots by hidden moisture fed, 
And on your towering heads the dews that fall 



THOUGHTS AMONG THE TREES. 147 

From God's right hand. I love jour sacred lore, 
And to the silence you have learn 'd of Him 
Bow down my spirit. Not a whispering leaf 
Uplifts itself, to mar the holy pause 
Of meditation. 

Doth not wisdom dwell 
With silence and with nature ? From the throng 
Of fierce communings, or of feverish joys. 
So the sweet mother of the Lord of life 
Turn'd to the manger, and its lowly train, 
And, mid their quiet ruminations, found 
Refuge and room. 

Methinks, an angel's wing 
Floats o'er your arch of verdure, — glorious trees ! 
Luring the soul above. O, ere we part, — 
For soon I leave your blessed company, 
And seek the dusty paths of life again, — 
Give me some gift, some token of your love, — 
One holy thought, in heavenly silence born, 
That I may nurse it till we meet again. 



10 b 



MISSIONS TO AFRICA. 



O Afric ! famed in story, 

The nurse of Egypt's might, 
A stain is on thy glory, 

And quenched thine ancient light 
Stern Carthage made the pinion 

Of Rome's strong eagle cower, — 
But brief was her dominion, 

And lost her trace of power. 

And thou, the stricken-hearted, — 

The scorned of every land, — 
The diadem departed, 

Dost stretch thy fettered hand ; 
How long shall misery wring thee, 

And none arise to save ? 
And every billow bring thee 

Sad tidings from the slave ? 

Is not thy night of weeping, 
Thy time of darkness, o'er ? 

Is not Heaven's justice keeping- 
Its vigil round thy shore ? 



MISSIONS TO AFRICA. 149 

I see a watch-light hurning 

High on yon wave-girt tower, 
To guide thy sons, returning 

In freedom's glorious power. 

Thy pyramids, aspiring, 

Unceasing wonder claim, 
And still the world, admiring, 

Demands their founder's name ; 
But more enduring glory 

Shall settle on his head 
Who blest Salvation's story 

Shall o'er thy desert spread. 



THE ORDINATION. 



Up to thy Master's work I for thou art sworn 
To do his bidding, till the hand of death 
Strike off thine armour. Thy deep vow denies 
To hoard earth's gold, or truckle for its smile, 
Or bind its blood-stain 'd laurel on thy brow. 

— A nobler field is thine. — The soul ! the soul ! - 

That is thy province, — that mysterious thing, 

Which hath no limit from the walls of sense, — 

No chill from hoary time, — with pale decay 

No fellowship, — but shall stand forth unchang'd, 

Unscath'd amid the resurrection fires, 

To bear its boundless lot of good or ill. — 

And dost thou take authority to aid 

This pilgrim-essence to a throne in heaven 

Among the glorious harpers, and the ranks 

Of radiant seraphim and cherubim ? 

Thy business is with that which cannot die, — 
Whose subtle thought the untravell'd universe 



THE ORDINATION. 151 

Spans on swift wing, from slumbering ages sweeps 
Their buried treasures, scans the vault of heaven, 
Poises the orbs of light, points boldly out 
Their trackless pathway through the blue expanse, 
Foils the red comet in its flaming speed, 
And aims to read the secrets of its God, 

— Yet thou, a son of clay, art privileg'd 
To make thy Saviour's image brighter still 
In this majestic soul ! 

Give God the praise 
That thou art counted worthy, — and lay down 
Thy lip in dust. — Bethink thee of its loss, — 
For He whose sighs on Olivet, whose pangs 
On Calvary, best speak its priceless worth, 
Saith that it may be lost. Should it sin on 
Till the last hour of grace and penitence 
Is meted out, ah ! what would it avail 
Though the whole world, with all its pomp, and power, 
And plumage, were its own ? What were its gain 
If the brief hour-glass of this life should fail, 
And leave remorse no grave, — despair, no hope ? 

— Up, blow thy trumpet, sound the loud alarm 
To those who sleep in Zion. Boldly warn 

To 'scape their condemnation, o'er whose head 
Age after age of misery hath roll'd, — 
Who from their prison-house look up and see 
Heaven's golden gate, — and to its watchmen cry, 



152 THE ORDINATION. 

" What of the night ? " while the dread answer falls 
With fearful echo down the unfathom'd depths : — 
"Eternity!" 

Should one of those lost souls 
Amid its tossings utter forth thy name, 
As one who might have pluck'd it from the pit, 
Thou man of God ! would there not be a burst 
Of tears in heaven ? 

O, live the life of prayer, 
The life of faith in the meek Son of God, 
The life of tireless labour for His sake : 
So may the Angel of the covenant bring 
Thee to thy home in bliss, with many a gem 
To glow for ever in thy Master's crown. 



THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME. 



Occasioned by the words of a dying friend, — "Before morning I shall 
be at home/' 



Home ! home ! its glorious threshold 

Through parted clouds I see, 
Those mansions by a Saviour bought, 

Where I have long'd to be, 
And, lo ! a bright unnumbered host 

O'erspread the heavenly plain, 
Not one is silent — every harp 

Doth swell the adoring strain. 

Fain would my soul be praising 

Amid that sinless throng, 
Fain would my voice be raising 

Their everlasting song, — 
Hark ! hark ! they bid me hasten 

To leave the fainting clay, 
Friends ! hear ye not the welcome sound ? 

" Arise, and come away." 



154 THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME. 

Before the dawn of morning 

These lower skies shall light, 
I shall have joined their company 

Above this realm of night, 
Give thanks, my mourning dear ones, 

Thanks to the Eternal King, 
Who crowns my soul with victory 

And plucks from Death the sting. 



HEAVEN'S LESSON. 



Heaven teacheth thee to mourn, thou fair, young bride. 

Thou art its pupil now. The lowest class, 

The first beginners in its school, may learn 

How to rejoice. The sycamore's broad leaf, 

Thrill'd by the breeze, the humblest grass-bird's nest, 

Murmur of gladness, and the wondering babe, 

Borne by its nurse out in the open fields, 

Learneth that lesson. The wild mountain-stream 

That throws by fits its gushing music forth, 

The careless sparrow, happy, tho' the frosts 

Nip his light foot, have learn 'd the simple lore, 

How to rejoice. Mild Nature teacheth it 

To all her innocent works. 

But God alone 
Instructeth how to mourn. He doth not trust 
This highest lesson to a voice, or hand, 
Subordinate. Behold ! He cometh forth ! 
sweet disciple, bow thyself to learn 
The alphabet of tears. Receive the lore, 
Sharp though it be, to an unanswering breast, 



156 heaven's lesson. 

A will subdued. And may such wisdom spring 
From these rough rudiments, that thou shalt gain 
A class more noble, and, advancing, soar 
Where the sole lesson is a seraph's praise. 

Ah, be a docile scholar, and so rise 
Where mourning hath no place. 



THE BUBBLE. 



Out springs the bubble, dazzling bright, 
With ever-changing hues of light, 
And so amid the flowery grass 
Our gilded years of childhood pass. 
Yet bears not each with traitor sway, 
Beneath its robe, some gem away ? 
Some bud of hope, at morning born, 
Without the memory of the thorn ? 
Some fruit that ripen'd, free from care ? 
Where are those vanish 'd treasures ? where P 

Then knowledge, with her letter 'd lore, 
Demands us at the nursery-door, 
Reproves our love of vain delights, 
And on the brow, "sub jugum," writes. 
But the sweet joys of earliest days, 
The buoyant spirits, wing'd for praise, 
Escape, — exhale. We thought them seal'd, 
For wintry days, their charm to yield. 
Where have they fled ? Go, ask the sky, 
Where fleet the dews, when suns are high. 



158 THE BUBBLE. 

Upborne by history's arm, we tread 
The crumbling soil, o'er nations dead. 
The buried king, the mouldering sage, 
The relics of a nameless age, 
We summon forth, with vain regret ; 
And in that toil our heart forget, — 
Till, warn'd, perchance, by wayward deeds, 
How much that realm a regent needs, 
Renew, with pangs of contrite pain, 
The study of ourselves again. 

While thus we roam, the silver hair 

Steals o'er our temples here and there, 

And beauty starts, amaz'd to see 

The ploughshare of an enemy. 

— What is that haunt, where willows wave ? 

That yawning pit ? The grave ! the grave ! 

The turf is set, the violets grow, 

The throngs rush on, where we lie low. 

Our name is lost, amid their strife, 

The bubble bursts, — and this is life ! 



ATTENDING A FORMER PUPIL TO THE 
GRAVE. 



Daughter, I will not leave thee. 

Thou wert wont 
To sit so close beside me with thy task, 
And lift thy little book, and scan my face, 
Timing thy question wisely to my cares, 
And thou would'st gently put thy hand in mine 
When summer- school was o'er, and strive to lead 
To thine own pleasant home, bespeaking still 
For me such things as unto thee were dear, 
Thy white-hair 'd grandsire's kindness, or the walk 
In the sweet plat of flowers, until I felt 
That, of a pupil, I had made a friend. 

— I will not leave thee, now that thou must take 
Thy journey to thy sepulchre. I know 
How timid thou wert ever, and would'st cling 
Unto my arm, when childhood's little fears 
Or troubles daunted thee. But now, behold, 



160 ATTENDING A FORMER PUPTL TO THE GRAVE 

Thou on thy low and sable carriage lead'st 
And marshall'st us the way where we must go, 
Each for himself. 

Stranger and friend sweep on 
In long procession. 

Daughter, I am near 
In this most solemn hour. I'll stay and hear 
The, " Dust to dust," that turns the cheek so pale 
Of mourning love. Till the green turf is laid, — 
The last sad office of affection o'er, — 
I will not leave thee, sweetest. No, — I'll wait 
Till every lingerer hasteth to his home, 
And then I'll breathe a prayer beside thy bed, — 
Thou, who so oft hast pour'd thy prayer with me. 

— I'll be the last to leave thee. 0, be first 
To welcome me above, — if, thro' the trust 
In my Redeemer's strength, I thither rise from dust. 



MISTAKEN GRIEF. 



There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at rest.' 

Job. 



We mourn for those who toil, 

The wretch who ploughs the main, 
The slave who hopeless tills the soil 

Beneath the stripe and chain ; 
For those who in the world's hard race, 

O'erwearied and unblest, 
A host of gliding phantoms chase ; 

Why mourn for those who rest ? 

We mourn for those who sin, 

Bound in the tempter's snare, 
Whom syren pleasure beckoneth in 

To prisons of despair, — 
Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn, 

Are wreck 'd on folly's shore, 
But why in anguish should we mourn 

For those who sin.no more ? 

11 



162 MISTAKEN GRIEF. 

We mourn for those who weep, 

Whom stern afflictions bend, 
Despairing o'er the lowly sleep 

Of lover or of friend ; 
But they who Jordan's swelling tide 

No more are call'd to stem, 
Whose tears the hand of God hath dried, 

Why should we mourn for them ? 



DEATH OF MRS. H. W. L. WINSLOW, 
MISSIONARY IN CEYLON. 



Thy name hath power like magic. Back it brings 
The earliest pictures hung in memory's halls, 
Tinting them freshly o'er : — the rugged cliff, — 
The towering trees, — the wintry walk to school, — 
The page so often conn'd, — the hour of sport 
Well earn'd and dearly priz'd, — the sparkling brook 
Making its slight cascade, — the darker rush 
Of the pent river through its rocky pass, — 
The violet-gatherings mid the vernal banks, — 
When our young hearts did ope their crystal gates 
To every simple joy. 

I little deem'd, 
'Mid all that gay and gentle fellowship, 
That Asia's sun would beam upon thy grave, 
Tho', even then, from thy dark, serious eye 
There was a glancing forth of glorious thought, 
That scorn'd earth's vanities. I saw thee stand 
With but a few brief summers o'er thy head, 

11 b 



164 DEATH OF MRS. H. W. L. WINSLOW. 

And in the consecrated courts of God 

Confess thy Saviour's name. And they who mark'd 

The promise of that opening bud did ask 

What its full bloom must be. 

But now thy couch 
Is where the Ceylon mother tells her child 
Of all thy prayers and labours. Yes, thy rest 
Is in the bosom of that fragrant isle 
Where heathen man with lavish Nature strives 
To blot the lesson she would teach of God. 

Thy pensive sisters pause upon thy tomb 
To catch the spirit that did bear thee through 
All tribulation, till thy robes were white, 
To join the angelic train. And so farewell, 
My childhood's playmate, and my sainted friend, 
Whose bright example, not without rebuke, 
Admonisheth, that home, and ease, and wealth, 
And native land, are well exchang'd for heaven. 



SHOW US THE FATHER." 

John, iv., 8, 

Have ye not seen Him, when through parted snows 
Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green ? 

When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows, 
And the pure snow-drop bursts its folded screen ? 

When the wild rose, that asks no florist's care, 

Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have ye not seen Him there ? 

Have ye not seen Him, when the infant's eye, 
Through its bright sapphire-windows shows the mind ? 

When, in the trembling of the tear or sigh, 

Floats forth that essence, trembling and refined ? 

Saw ye not Him — the author of our trust, 

Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust ? 

Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill 
Casts off its icy chains, and leaps away ? 

In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill ? 
In songs of birds, at break of summer's day ? 

Or, in the ocean's everlasting rear, 

Battling the old grey rocks, that sternly guard his shore ? 



166 " SHOW US THE FATHER." 

Amid the stillness of the sabbath-morn, 

When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest, 

When in the heart the holy thought is born, 

And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast, 

Have ye not felt Him, while your kindling prayer 

Swelled out in tones of praise, announcing God was there ? 

Shoiv us the Father ! If ye fail to trace 

His chariot where the stars majestic roll, 
His pencil 'mid earth's loveliness and grace, 

His presence in the sabbath of the soul, 
How can you see Him till the day of dread, 
When to assembled worlds the book of doom is read ? 



THE LOST SISTER. 



They wak'd me from my sleep, I knew not why, 
And bade me hasten where a midnight lamp 
Gleam'd from an inner chamber. There she lay, 
With brow so pale, — who yester-morn breath'd forth 
Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss 
Into the hearts of others. By her side 
Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed 
Upon the stricken idol, — all dismay M 
Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nurs'd 
That fair young creature at her gentle breast, 
And oft those sunny locks had deck'd with buds 
Of rose and jasmine, shuddering, wip'd the dews 
Which death distils. 

The sufferer just had given 
Her long farewell, and for the last, last time 
Touch 'd with cold lips his cheek who led so late 
Her footsteps to the altar, and receiv'd 
In the deep transport of an ardent heart 
Her vow of love. And she had striven to press 
That golden circlet with her bloodless hand 
Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave 



168 THE LOST SISTER. 

At the bright, bridal mom. So, there she lay 
In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb 
Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast 
The dreaded bitterness of death had pass'd. 
— But a faint wail disturb 'd the silent scene, 
And, in its nurse's arms a new-born babe 
Was borne in utter helplessness along, 
Before that dying eye. 

Its gather 'd film 
Kindled one moment with a sudden glow 
Of tearless agony, — and fearful pangs, 
Racking the rigid features, told how strong 
A mother's love doth root itself. One cry 
Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer, 
Went up to Heaven, — and, as its cadence sank, 
Her spirit enter 'd there. 

Morn after morn 
Rose and retir'd ; yet still as in a dream 
I seem'd to move. The certainty of loss 
Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept 
As weep the sisterless. — For thou wert fled, 
My only, my belov'd, my sainted one, — 
Twin of my spirit ! and my n umber 'd days 
Must wear the sable of that midnight hour 
Which rent thee from me. 



THE DEPARTED NEIGHBOUR. 



Ah ! — can that funeral knell be thine, — 

Thou, at whose image kind 
So many long-remembered scenes 

Come rushing o'er my mind ? — 
Thy rural home, behind the trees, — 

Thy bowers, with roses drest, — 
And the bright eye, and beaming smile, 

That cheer 'd each entering guest. — 

There, when our children, hand in hand, 

Pursued their earnest play, 
It drew our hearts more closely still, 

To see their own so gay, — 
And hear their merry laughter ring 

Around the evening hearth, 
While the loud threat of winter's storm 

Broke not their hour of mirth. — 

'Tis strange, that I should seek in vain 
That mansion, once so fair, — 



170 THE DEPARTED NEIGHBOUR. 

And find the spot where erst it stood 

All desolate and bare, — 
Its smooth green bank, on which so thick 

The dappled daisies grew, — 
How passing strange, — that from its place 

Even that has vanish'd too. — 

But thou, — whatever change or cloud 

Deform 'd this lower sky, 
Hadst still a fountain in thy heart 

Whose streams were never dry, — 
A fountain of perennial hoj)e, 

That never ceased to flow, — 
And give its sky-fed crystals forth 

To every child of woe. — 

Thy frequent visits to my couch, 

If sickness paled my cheek, 
And all thy sympathetic love, 

Which language cannot speak, 
How strong those recollections rise 

To wake the grateful tear, 
For deeds like these more precious grow 

With every waning year. — 

I cannot think that bitter grief 
Would please thy happy soul, — 






THE DEPARTED NEIGHBOUR. 171 

Rais'd, as thou art, to that blest world 

Where tempests never roll ; 
But may thy dearest, and thy best, 

The children of thy care, — 
Walk steadfast in thy chosen path, — 

And joyful meet thee there. 



THE CONVENIENT SEASON. 



" Go thy way for this time, when I have a convenient season I will call 
for thee." 

Acts. 



Alone he sat, and wept. — That very night 

The ambassador of God, with earnest zeal 

Of eloquence, had warn'd him to repent, — 

And, like the Roman at Drusilla's side, 

Hearing the truth, he trembled. — Conscience wrought 

And sin allur'd. The struggle shook him sore. 

The dim lamp wan'd, the hour of midnight toll'd; 
Prayer sought for entrance, — but the heart had clos'd 
Its diamond valve. He threw him on his couch, 
And bade the spirit of his God depart. 

— But there was war within him, and he sigh'd, 
" Depart not utterly, thou Blessed One ! 
Return when youth is past, and make my soul 
For ever thine." 

With kindling brow he trod 
The haunts of pleasure, while the viol's voice 



THE CONVENIENT SEASON. 173 

And beauty's smile his fluttering pulses woke. 
To love he knelt, and on his brow she hung 
Her freshest myrtle- wreath. For gold he sought, 
And winged wealth indulg'd him, — till the world 
Pronounc'd him happy. 

Manhood's vigorous prime 
Swell'd to its climax, and his busy days 
And restless nights swept like a tide away, 
When, lo ! — a message from the crucified, 
" Look unto me, and live." But care had twin'd 
Strong tendrils round him, — and its countless shoots 
Still striking earthward, like the Indian tree, 
Barr'd out, with woven shades, the eye of Heaven. 

— Twice warn'd, he ponder 'd : — then impatient spake 
Of weariness, and haste, and want of time, 

And duty to his children, and besought 
A longer space to do the work of Heaven. 

— God spake again, when age had shed its snows 
Upon his temples, and his weary hand 

Shrank from gold-gathering. But the rigid chain 
Of habit bound him and he still implor'd 
A more convenient season. 

" See, — my step 
Is firm and free, my unquench'd eye delights 
To view this pleasant world, — and life with me 
May last for many years. In the calm hour 



174 THE CONVENIENT SEASON. 

Of lingering sickness, I can better fit 
For long eternity." 

Disease came on. 
And reason fled. The maniac strove with death, 
Till darkness smote his eye-balls, and thick ice 
Settled around his heart-strings. The poor clay 
Lay vanquish 'd and distorted. But the soul, 
The soul, whose promis'd season never came, 
Where was it p 



THE AMERICAN BISHOP. 



A scene at the closing of a Convention in Virginia, by the venerable 
Bishop Moore. 



They cluster 'd round, — that listening throng, ■ 

The parting hour drew nigh, — 
And heighten 'd feeling, deep and strong, 

Spoke forth, from eye to eye, — 

For reverend in his hoary years, 

A white-rob'd prelate bent, 
And trembling pathos wing'd his words,, 

As to the heart they went. 

With saintly love, he urg'd the crowd 

Salvation's hope to gain, 
While, gathering o'er his furrow 'd cheek, 

The tears fell down like rain ; — 

He wav'd his hand, and music woke 

A warm and solemn strain, 
His favourite hymn swell'd high, and fill'd 

The consecrated fane. 



176 THE AMERICAN BISHOP. 

Then from the hallow'd chancel forth, 
With faltering step, he sped, 

And fervent laid a father's hand 
On every priestly head, 

And breath 'd the blessing of his God, 
And, full of meekness, said, 

" Be faithful in your Master's work, 
When your old bishop's dead. 

" For more than fifty years, my sons, 
A Saviour's love supreme, 

Unto a sinful world, hath been 
My unexhausted theme ; — 

" Now, see, the blossoms of the grave 
Are o'er my temples spread, — 

Oh ! lead the seeking soul to Hiin, 
When your old bishop's dead." 

Far wan'd the holy sabbath -eve 
On toward the midnight hour, 

Before that spell-bound throng retir'd 
To slumber's soothing power, — 

Yet many a sleeper, mid his dream, 

Beheld, in snowy stole, 
That patriarch -prelate's bending form, 

Whose accents stirr'd the soul. 



THE AMERICAN BISHOP. 177 

In smiles the summer-morn arose, 

And many a grateful guest, 
Forth from those hospitable domes, 

With tender memories, press' d. 

While o'er the broad and branching bay, 

Which like a heart doth pour 
A living tide, in countless streams, 

Through fair Virginia's shore — 

O'er Rappahannock's fringed breast, 

O'er rich Potomac's tide, 
Or where the bold, resistless James 

Rolls on, with monarch-pride, — 

The boats that ask nor sail, nor oar, 

With speed majestic glide, — 
And many a thoughtful pastor leans 

In silence o'er their side, — 

And, while he seems to scan the flood 

In silver neath him spread, 
Revolves the charge — " Be strong for God, 

When your old bishop's dead" 



12 



POWER OF THE ALMIGHTY. 



God of the chainless winds, that wildly wreck 

The moaning forest, and the ancient oak 

Rend like a sapling spray, — and sweep the sand 

O'er the lost caravan, — that trod with pride 

Of tinkling bells, and camel's arching neck, 

The burning desert, — a dense host at morn, 

At eve, a bubble, on the trackless waste : — 

God of the winds ! — can'st thou not rule the heart, 

And gather back its passions, when thou wilt, 

Bidding them, " Peace — be still ! " 

God of the waves, 
That toss and mock the mightiest argosy, 
As the gay zephyr frets the thistle-down, 
Until the sternest leader's heart doth melt 
Because of trouble, — Thou who call'st them back 
From their rough challenge to the muffled sky, 
And bidd'st them hannless lave an infant's feet 
That seeketh silver shells, — canst Thou not curb 
The tumult of the nations, — the hot wrath 
Of warring kings, who, like the babe, must die ; 



POWER OF THE ALMIGHTY. 179 

Vaunting this day in armour, and the next,, 
Unshrouded, slumbering on the battle-field ? 
God of the unfathom'd, unresisted deep ! 
We trust in Thee, and know in whom we trust. 

God of the solemn stars, that tread so true 



The path by thee appointed, every one, 
From the slight asteroid to the vast orb 
That lists the watch-word, or the music-march 
Of farthest planets round their monarch suns, 
Marshall 'd in glorious order, — lead our souls 
From system unto system up to Thee; 
That when, unbodied from this lower world, 
Trembling, they launch, they may not lose the clue 
That guides from sun to sun, thro' boundless space, 
The stranger-atom to a home with Thee. 



12 b 



"IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD." 



' Is it weU with the child ? And she answered, * It is welV " 

2 Kings, iv., 26. 



" Is it well with the child?" — And she answer 'd, " 'Tis 
well ; " 

But I gaz'd on the mother who spake, 
For the tremulous tear, as it sprang from its cell, 

Bade a doubt in my bosom awake ; 
And I mark'd that the bloom from her features had fled, 

So late in their loveliness rare, 
And the hue of the watcher that bends o'er the dead 

Was gathering all languidly there. 

" Is it well with the child ? "—And she answer 'd, " 'Tin 
well. 

But I thought of its beauty and grace, 
When the tones of its laughter would merrily swell 

At affection's delighted embrace : 
And thro' their long fringe, as it rose from its sleep, 

Its eyes beam'd a rapturous ray, 
And I wonder'd that silence should settle so deep 

O'er the home of a being so gay. 



"is it well with the child." 181 

1 Is it well with the child ? " — And she answer 'd, " 'Tis 
well. 

No more will it shudder with pain, 
Of the pang and the groan, and the gasp it might tell, 

It never will suffer again. 
In my dreams, as an angel, it stands by my side, 

In the garments of beauty and love ; 
And I hear its glad lays to the Saviour who died, 

'Mid the choir of the blessed above." 



MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. 



So, — Asia hath thy dust, — thou, who wert born 
Amid my own wild hillocks, where the voice 
Of falling waters, and of gentle gales, 
Mingle their music. How thy soft dark eye, 
Thy graceful form — thy soul-illumin'd smile, 
Gleam forth upon me, as I muse at eve, 
'Mid the bright imagery of earliest years. 

Hear I the murmur 'd echo of thy name, 



From yon poor forest race ? Tis meet for them 

To hoard thy memory, as a blessed star, 

For thou didst seek their lowly homes, and tell 

Their sad-brow'd children of a Saviour's love, 

And of a clime where no oppressor comes. 

Cold winter found thee there, — and summer's heat, 

With zeal unblenching. — Tho', perchance, the sneer 

Might curl some worldling's lip, — 'twas not for thee 

To note its language, or to scorn the soul 

Of the neglected Indian, or to tread 

Upon the ashes of his buried kings 

As on a loathsome weed. 

Thine own fair halls 
Lur'd thee in vain, until the hallow 'd church 



MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. 183 

Rear 'd its light dome among them, and the voice 
Of a devoted shepherd, day by day, 
Call'd back those wanderers to the sheltering fold 
Of a Redeemer's righteousness. — 

And, then, 
Thy path was on the waters, and thy hand 
Close clasp 'd in his who bore so fearless forth 
The glorious Gospel to those ancient climes 
Which in the darkness, and the shade of death, 
Benighted dwell. 

Strong ties detain 'd thee here, — 
Home — father — sightless mother — sister dear, — 
Brothers and tender friends, a full array 
Of hope and bliss. But what were those to thee, 
Who on God's altar laid the thought of self ? 
What were such joys to thee, — if duty bade 
Their crucifixion ? 

Oh ! Jerusalem ! 
Jerusalem ! Methinks I see thee there, 
Pondering the flinty path thy Saviour trod, 
And fervent kneeling where his prayer arose, 
All night on Olivet, or with meek hand 
Culling from pure Siloam's marge a flower, 
Whose tender leaflets drink as fresh a dew 
As when unhumbled Judah wore the crown 
Of queenly beauty ; — or with earnest eye 
Exploring where the shepherd- minstrel kept 
His father's flock, — before the cares that lodge 



184 MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. 

Within the thorn- wreath'd circlet of a king 

Had turn'd his temples grey ; or with sweet smile 

Reposing, wearied, in thy simple tent 

By turbid Jordan, or the bitter wave 

Of the Asphaltites. 

Back to thy place, 
Amid the Syrian vales, to thy lov'd toils 
For the forsaken Druses, and the throng 
Of heathen babes, who on thine accents hang 
As on a mother's. Lo ! the time is short 
Perils upon the waters wait for thee, — 
And then another Jordan, — from whose flood 
Is no return. 

But thou, with lip so pale^ 
Didst take the song of triumph, and go down 
Alone, and fearless, thro' its depths profound. 
Snatches of heavenly harpings made thee glad, 
Even to thy latest gasp. 

Therefore, the grief 
Born at thy grave is not like other grief. 
Tears mix with joy. We praise our God for thee. 



DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL." 



Depart ! depart ! the silver cord is breaking, 
The sun-ray fades before thy darken'd sight, 

The subtle essence from the clod is taking, 
'Mid groans and pangs, its everlasting flight ; 

Lingerest thou fearful ? Christ the grave hath bless'd, 

He in that lowly couch did deign to take his rest. 

Depart ! thy sojourn here hath been in sorrow, 
Tears were thy meat along the thorn- clad path, 

The hope of eve was but a clouded morrow, 
And sin appall'd thee with thy Maker's wrath, 

Earth gave her lessons in a tempest- voice. 

Thy discipline is ended. Chasten 'd one, rejoice ! 

Thou wert a stranger here, and all thy trouble 
To bind a wreath upon the brow of pain, 

To build a bower upon the watery bubble, 

Or strike an anchor neath its depths, was vain ; 

Depart ! depart ! all tears are wiped away, 

Thy seraph -marshall'd road is toward the realm of day. 



DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN. 



So, from the field of labour thou art gone 
To thy reward, — like him who putteth off 
His outer garment, at the noontide hour, 
To take a quiet sleep. Thy zeal hath run 
Its course untiring, and thy quicken 'd love, 
Where 'er thy Master pointed, joy'd to go. 

— Amid thy faithful toil, His summons came, 
Warning thee home, — and thou didst loose thy heart 
From thy fond flock, and from affection's bonds, 
And from thy blessed children's warm embrace, 
With smiles and songs of praise. 

Death smote thee sore, 
And plung'd his keen shaft in the quivering nerve, 
Making the breath that stirr'd life's broken valve 
A torturing gasp, but with thy martyrdom 
Were smiles and songs of praise. 

And thou didst rise 
Above the pealing of these sabbath bells 
Up to that glorious and unspotted church 
Whose worship is eternal. 

Would that all 
Who love our Lord might with thy welcome look 






DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN. 187 

On the last foe, not as a spoiler sent 
To wreck their treasures, and to blast their joys, 
But as a friend who wraps the weary clay 
With earth, its mother, and doth raise the soul 
To that blest consummation which its prayers 
Unceasingly besought, tho' its blest hopes 
But faintly shadow'd forth. 

So, tho* we hear 
Thy voice on earth no more, the holy hymn 
With which thou down to Jordan's shore didst pass, 
To take thy last cold baptism, still shall waft, 
As from some cloud, its echoed sweetness back, 
To teach us of the melody of heaven. 



A MOTHER'S TEACHING. 



The boy sat listening to the words 
That from his mother fell, — 

Pure lessons, wrapp'd in gentle tones, 
Like music's softest swell. 

And oft he mark'd her musing brow, 

With holy silence bright, 
And bless'd its placid smile, and deem'd 

That angels lov'd the sight. 

Yet when that mother laid her down 

To rest in mouldering clay, 
The world's temptations o'er him roll'd, 

And swept his faith away. 

Like bird that scorns the fowler's snare, 

He trifled with his fate, 
Forgot to seek the Spirit's aid, 

Or for its teachings wait. 



a mother's teaching. 189 

Yet once, as in his midnight watch, 

The lonely deck he pac'd, 
With nought hut solemn stars above, 

And, round, old Ocean's waste, 

Methought her warning voice, who long 

'Neath the cold sods had slept, 
Spake forth from every rushing wave 

That on resistless swept ; 

Methought a tear-drop, like her own, 

Fell from the gathering cloud, 
That round the slowly-rising moon 

Had wreath 'd its silver shroud ; 

Methought the searching eye of God 

Flam'd in his secret soul ; 
And down the proud man bow'd, with tears, 

To own its strong control; 

The Saviour s lowly yoke he took ; 

His flinty heart was riven, — 
And so the seed his mother sow'd 

Brought forth rich fruit for Heaven. 



"TO DIE IS GAIN. 



Say'st thou, 'tis gain to die ? And may I ask 
How thou hast weigh 'd, and by what process brought 
The apostle's answer to thy sum of life ? 
Where are thy balances, and whose firm hand 
Did poise therein thy talents and their use 
To show such blest result ? Time's capital 
Needs well be husbanded, to leave the amount 
Of gain behind, when at a moment's call 
The spirit fleets, and the dissolving flesh 
Yields to the earth-worm's fang. 

Say, hath thy lip, 
Too often satiate, loath'd the mingled cup 
So madly fill'd at Pleasure's turbid stream ? 
Or hath thine ear, the promises of hope 
Drank on in giddy sickness, till the touch 
Of grave philosophy their emptiness 
Detected, and to their thin element 
Of air reduc'd ? Or doth thy cheated heart, 
Sowing its warm affections on the wind, 
And reaping but the whirlwind, turn with scorn 






" TO DTE IS GAIN.'* 191 

From every harvest which these changeful skies 
Can ripen or destroy ? Then hast thou prov'd 
The loss of life, but not the gain of death. 

But hast thou by thy ceaseless prayers obtain'd 
Such token of acceptance with thy Lord, 
So fill'd each post of duty, so sustain'd 
All needful discipline, so deeply mourn 'd 
Each burden of iniquity, that death 
Comes as a favour'd messenger to lead, 
To its bright heritage, the willing soul ? 

— Searcher of hearts, thou knowest ! Thou alone 
The hidden thought dost read, the daily act 
Note unforgetful. Take away the dross 
Of earthly principle, the gather 'd film 
Of self-deluding hope, the love and hate 
Which have their root in dust, until the soul, 
Regarding life and death with equal eye, 
Absorbs its will in thine. 



TJZZIAH. 

2 Chron., xxvi. 



The star of Judah's king rode high in plenitude of power, 
And lauded was his sceptre's sway, in palace and in bower, 
Fresh fountains in the desert waste, up at his bidding 

sprung, 
And clustering vines o'er Carmel's breast, a broader 

mantle flung, 
He hied him to the battle-field, in all his young renown, 
And wild Arabia's swarthy host like blighted grass fell 

down. 

Yet, when within his lifted heart the seeds of pride grew 

strong, 
And unacknowledg'd blessings led to arrogance and wrong, 
Even to the temple's holy place, with impious step, he 

hied, 
And with a kindling censer stood fast by the altar's side ; 
But he whose high and priestly brow the anointing oil 

had bless'd 
Stood forth majestic to rebuke the sacrilegious guest. 



UZZTAH. 193 

I Tis not for thee," he sternly said, u to tread this 

hallow 'd nave, 
And take that honour to thyself which God to Aaron 

gave, 
'Tis not for thee, thou mighty king, o'er Judah's realm 

ordain'd, 

To trample on Jehovah's law, by whom thy fathers reign 'd. 
Go hence ! " And from his awful eye there seem'd such 

ire to flame 
As mingled with the thunder-blast when God to Sinai 

came. 

Then loud the reckless monarch storm'd, and with a 
daring hand 

He swung the sacred censer high above the trembling 
band, 

But, where the burning sign of wrath did in his forehead 
flame, 

Behold ! the avenging doom of heaven, the livid plague- 
spot came ; 

And low his princely head declin'd, in bitterness of woe, 

While from the temple-gate he sped, — a leper, white as 
snow. 



13 



OUR TEACHERS. 



" I feel that the dead have conferred a blessing on me, by helping me to 

think of the world rightly." 

Rev. Orville Dewey. 



Say'st thou the dead are teachers P 

Must we come, 
And sit among the clods, and lay our ear 
To the damp crannies of the loathsome tomb, 
And listen for their lore ? 

There comes no sound 
From all those stern and stone-bound sepulchres. 
Grass-blades are here, and flowers, and now and then 
A mother-bird doth cheer her callow young 
With chirping strain, while the low winds that sweep 
The shivering harp -strings of yon ancient pines 
Make sullen undulation. 

Still thou say'st 
The silent dead are teachers. 

Stretch your hands, 
And on our tablets write one pencil-trace, 
That we may hoard it in our heart of hearts. — 
All motionless ! — All passionless ! — All mute ! — 



OUR TEACHERS. 195 

O silence ! — twin with wisdom ! — I would press 

My lip upon yon cradled infant's grave, 

And drink the murmur of its smitten bloom. 

A mother's young pride in her beautiful, 

Her darling ministries from eve to morn, — 

Laid low ! — Laid low ! — How slight the aspen stem 

Round which her heart's joys twin'd. — Yet all are frail, — 

All like the crisp stalk in the reaper's path. 

Read I thy lesson right, — my little one ? — 

See, by thy side, the strong man sleepeth well. — 

The tall, proud man, who tower 'd, like Israel's king, 

With head above the people. — Yet his wail, 

Was it not weak as thine, — when death launch'd home 

The fatal dart ? — Humility befits 

The born of earth, — the crush'd before the moth; 

And the deep teaching of such lowly creed 

Best cometh from the dead. 

Ah ! let me kneel 
Here on this mound, where sleeps my early friend, 
And wait her words in lowliness of soul. 
Thou speak'st not to me ! — thou whose silver tone 
Did lead the way, in all our sweet discourse, 
When, lost in lonely haunts, we wander 'd long, 
Shunning the crowd. — Twin-soul, thou wert with mine. 
Yet still I think I lov'd thee not enough 
When thou wert with me. — 

Thy clear, welcome voice, 
Thy soft caress at meeting, — it would seem 

13 b 



196 OUR TEACHERS. 

That sometimes clouds around my spirit hung, 
Checking the fond response. Beloved one, 
Was it not so ? And there were tender words 
I might have said to thee, and said them not. 
And there were higher flights of glorious thought, 
And nobler trophies on life's rugged steep, 
To which I might have urg'd thee. Was it so ? 
Make answer from thy pillow. Blind and weak ! 
I thought to have thee ever by my side. 
And so the hours swept by, till thou didst spread 
A sudden wing, and prove thine angel-birth. — 
O, by the keen regret of those lost hours, 
Pure spirit, teach me, with firm grasp to seize 
The passing moment, — not with duty's deed, 
Or the defrauded sympathies of love, 
To load the uncertain future ; — but with prayer 
Turn unto Him who metes our fleeting days, 
And teacheth wisdom from the voiceless tomb. 



THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING. 



Break from your chains, ye lingering streams ; 
Rise, blossoms, from your wintry dreams ; 
Drear fields, your robes of verdure take ; 
Birds, from your trance of silence wake ; 
Glad trees, resume your leafy crown ; 
Shrubs, o'er the mirror -brooks bend down ; 
Bland zephyrs, wheresoe'er ye stray, 
The Spring doth call you, — come away. 
Thou too, my soul, with quicken'd force 
Pursue thy brief, thy measur'd course ; 
With grateful zeal each power employ ; 
Catch vigour from Creation's joy; 
And deeply on thy shortening span 
Stamp love to God and love to man. 

But Spring, with tardy step, appears, 
Chill is her eye, and dim with tears ; 
Still are the founts in fetters bound, — 
The flower-germs shrink within the ground. 
Where are the warblers of the sky ? 
I ask, — and angry blasts reply. 



198 THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING. 

It is not thus in heavenly bowers : — 
> Nor ice-bound rill, nor drooping flowers, 
Nor silent harp, nor folded wing, 
Invade that everlasting Spring 
Toward which we look with wishful tear, 
While pilgrims in this wintry sphere, 



DEATH OF THE PRINCIPAL OF A 
RETREAT FOR THE INSANE. 



Few have been mourned like thee. The wise and good 

Do gather many weepers round their tomb, 

And true affection makes her heart an urn 

For the departed idol, till that heart 

Is ashes. With such sorrow art thou mourned, 

And more than this. There is a cry of woe 

Within the halls of yon majestic dome — 

A tide of grief, which reason may not check, 

Nor faith's deep anchor fathom. 

Straining eyes, 
That gaze on vacancy, do search for thee, 
Whose wand could put to flight the fancied ills 
Of sick imagination. The wrecked heart 
Keepeth the echo of thy soothing voice 
An everlasting sigh within its cells, 
And morbidly upon that music feeds. 
Mind's broken column 'mid its ruins bears 
Thy chiselled features. Thy dark eye looks forth 



200 DEATH OF THE PRINCIPAL OF 

From memory's watch-tower on the phrenzy-dream, 
Ruling its imagery, or with strange power 
Controlling madness, as the shepherd's harp 
Subdued the moody wrath of Israel's king. 
Even where the links of thought and speech are broke, 
'Mid that most absolute and perfect wreck, 
When throneless reason flies her idiot-foe, 
Thou hast a place. The fragments of the soul 
Do bear thine impress — shadowy, yet endeared, 
And multiplied by countless miseries. 
Beside some happy hearth, where fire-side joys 
And renovated health, and heaven-born hope, 
Swell high in contrast with the maniac's cell, 
Thou art remembered by some grateful heart, 
With the deep rapture of that lunatic 
Whom Jesus healed. 

But there's a wail for thee 
From throngs whom this unpitying world doth cast 
Out of her company, the scorned, the banned, 
The excommunicate. Thou wert their friend — 
Thy wasting midnight vigil was for them : 
The toil, the watching, and the stifled pang 
That stamped thee as a martyr, were for them. 
They could not thank thee, save with that strange shriek 
Which wounds the gentle ear. Yet thou didst walk 
In thy high ministry of love and power, 
As a magician 'mid their spectre-foes 
And maniac visions. 



A RETREAT TOR THE INSANE. 201 

Thou didst mark sublime 
Death's angel sweeping o'er thy studious page, 
And, at his chill monition, laying down 
The boasted treasures of philosophy, 
Didst clothe thyself in meekness as a child 
Waiting the father's will. 

And so farewell, 
Thou full of love to all whom God hath made, 
Thou tuned to melody, go home ! go home ! 
Where music hath no dissonance, and love 
Doth poise for ever on her perfect wing. 



THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND AMONG 
THE RUINS OF IONA. 



Where old Iona's ruins spread 

In shapeless fragments round, 
And where the crown 'd and mighty dead 

Repose in cells profound ; — 
Where o'er Columba's buried towers 

The shrouding ivy steals, 
And moans the owl from cloister'd bowers, 

A holy teacher kneels. 

Rocks spring terrific to the sky, 

Rude seas in madness storm ; 
And grimly frowns on Fancy's eye 

The Druid's awful form, 
With mutter'd curse, and reeking blade, 

And visage stern with ire ; — 
Yet mid that darkly-blended shade 

Still bends the stranger sire. 

He prays, — the father for his child, 
The distant and the dear ; 



THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND. 203 

And when yon abbey o'er the wild 

Upraised its arches drear, 
When at high-mass, or vesper-strain, 

Rich voices fill'd the air, 
From all that cowl'd and mitred train 

Rose there a purer prayer ? 

His name is on a simple scroll 

With Christian ardour penn'd, 
Which, thrilling, warns the sinner's soul 

To make his God a friend ; 
But, when the strong archangel's breath 

Yon ancient vaults shall rend, 
And, starting from the dust of death, 

These waken'd throngs ascend, 

Meek saint ! the boldest of the bold 

That sword or falchion drew, 
Barons, whose feudal glance controll'd 

Vassal and monarch too, — 
Proud heroes of the tented field, 

Kings of a vaunted line, 
May wish their blood-bought fame to yield 

For honours won like thine. 



TRUE WISDOM. 



" So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto 
wisdom." 

David. 



Why break the limits of permitted thought, 
To revel in Elysium ? thou who bear'st 
Still the stern yoke of this unresting life, 
Its toils, its hazards, and its fears of change ? 
Why hang thy frost-work wreath on fancy's brow, 
When labour warns thee to thy daily task, 
And faith doth bid thee gird thyself to run 
A faithful journey to the gate of heaven ? 

Up, 'tis no dreaming-time ! awake ! awake ! 
For He who sits on the High Judge's seat, 
Doth in his record note each wasted hour, 
Each idle word. Take heed, thy shrinking soul 
Find not their weight too heavy, when it stands 
At that dread bar from whence is no appeal. 
Lo, while we trifle, the light sand steals on, 
Leaving the hour-glass empty ; so thy life 
Glideth away, — stamp wisdom on its hours. 



ON MEETING SEVERAL FORMER PUPILS 
AT THE COMMUNION TABLE. 



" I have no greater joy than to see my children walk in the truth.' 

St. John. 



When kneeling round a Saviour's board 
Fair forms, and brows belov'd, I see, 

Who once the paths of peace explor'd, 
And trac'd the studious page with me, — 

Who from my side with pain would part ; 

My entering step with gladness greet, 
And pour complacent, o'er my heart, 

Affection's dew-drops, pure and sweet, 

When now, from each remember 'd face 
Beam tranquil hope and trust benign, 

When in each eye Heaven's smile I trace, 
The tear of joy suffuses mine. 

Father ! I bless thy ceaseless care, 

Which thus its holiest gifts hath shed ; 



206 MEETING AT THE COMMUNION TABLE. 

Guide Thou their steps through every snare, 
From every danger shield their head. 

From treacherous error's dire control, — 

From pride, from change, from darkness free, 

Preserve each timorous, trusting soul, 
That, like the ark-dove, flies to Thee. 

And may the wreath that cloudless days 
Around our hearts so fondly wove 

Still bind us till we speak Thy praise, 
As sister spirits, one in love ; — 

One, where no lingering ill can harm ; 

One, where no stroke of fate can sever ; 
Where nought but holiness doth charm, 

And all that charms shall live for ever. 



DEATH OF A YOUNG MUSICIAN. 



Music was in thy heart, and fast entwin'd, 
And closely knotted with its infant strings, 
Were the rich chords of melody. When youth 
And science led thee to their classic bower, 
A pale and patient student, the lone lamp 
Of midnight vigil found thee pouring out 
Thy soul in dulcet sound. In memory's cell 
Still live those thrilling tones, as erst they hroke, 
Beguiling with sweet choral symphonies 
The festal hour. 

But, lo ! while thou didst wake 
The solemn organ to entrancing power, 
Tracing the secret spells of harmony, 
On through deep rapture's labyrinthine maze 
Devotion came, and breath 'd upon thy brow. 
And made her temple in thy tuneful breast. 
So, music led thee to thy Saviour's feet, 
Serene and true disciple, and their harps 
Who fondly hold untiring guardianship 
O'er frail man's pilgrim-path were tremulous 
With joy for thee. 



208 DEATH OF A YOUNG MUSICIAN. 

Nor vainly to thy soul 
Came Heaven's high message wrapp'd in minstrelsy, 
For to its service, with unshrinking zeal, 
The blossom of thy life was dedicate. 
Thy hand was on God's altar, when a touch, 
Sudden and strange and icy cold, unloos'd 
Its fervent grasp. Thy gentle heart was glad 
With the soft promise of a hallo w'd love. 
But stern death dash'd it out. Now there are tears 
In tenderest eyes for thee. 

Yet we who know 
That earth hath many discords for a soul 
Fine ton'd and seraph-strung, and that the feet 
Which fain would follow Christ are sometimes held 
In the dark meshes of a downward course, 
Till strong repentance urge them back with tears, 
Do feel thy gain. 

Tis well thou art at home, 
Spirit of melody and peace and love. 



JOTHAM'S PARABLE. 



The trees of Israel once conven'd 

In conclave, strange and bold, 
To choose a ruler, though the Lord 

Had been their king of old. 
And, first, the homage of their vow 

They to the Olive paid, 
But she the flattering suit repellM, 

And lov'd the peaceful glade. 

Next, to the fruitful Fig they turn'd, 

On Shechem's shadowy height, 
And spread the gilded lures of power 

Before her dazzled sight ; 
But shivering low, in every leaf, 

As the light breeze swept by, 
Ambition's sinful thought she spurn'd, 

And rais'd to Heaven her eye. 

So then the lowly Vine they sought, 
That, round her trellis bound, 

14 



210 jotham's parable. 

In sweet contentment humbly dwelt, 

Belov'd by all around ; 
Yet, hiding 'neath her clusters broad, 

With unobtrusive smile, 
And, clinging closer to her prop, 

She 'scap'd th' insidious wile. 

Then up the thorny Bramble spake 

To every lofty tree, — 
u Come, put your trust beneath my shade, 

And I'll your ruler be." 
" The Bramble-shade ! the Bramble-shade ! 

Have ye forgot the day 
When Midian's old, oppressive yoke 

Was nobly rent away. 

" My glorious sire ! — Have ye forgot 

How in God's strength he rose ? 
And took his dear life in his hand, 

And triumph'd o'er your foes ? 
So now, if with my father's house 

Ye have dealt well and true, 
Rejoice ye in your new-made lord, 

While he exults in you. 

" But, if my slaughter^ brethren's blood 
Still from the dust cloth cry, 



jotham's parable. 211 

And echo in that Judge's ear, 

Who rules both earth and sky, 
Then from the bramble, where ye trust, 

Break forth, at midnight hour, 
The o'erwhelming and vindictive flame, 

And all your host devour." 

That voice the in grate people heard 

With deep remorse and dread, 
And deem'd some spirit, strong in wrath, 

Had risen from the dead ; 
For there, on Gerizzim, he stood, 

Amid its cedars bright, 
And frown 'd one moment on the throng, 

Then vanish'd from their sight. 

But fearful was the fiery doom 

On Shechem's leaguer 'd tower, 
When fierce Abimelech arose, 

With war's disastrous power. 
Each soldier bore a sever 'd bough, 

And rear'd a mighty pile, 
From whence the wild, unpitying flame 

Consum'd the men of guile. 

And on that tyrant's head there fell 
A weight of wrath and pain, — 

14 b 



212 jotham's parable. 

Dire judgment for usurping guilt, 
And for his brethren slain. 

The mill-stone, by a woman thrown, - 
A servant's deadly thrust, — 

Aveng'd the usurper's ruthless deed, 
And crush 'd him to the dust. 



THE DYING BOY. 



His pure cheek pressed the pillow, and its hue, 
So late like the fresh rose's heart, was pale, 
While mid the clustering curls those chill dews hung 
Which fall hut once. 

Still o'er that heauteous brow 
Where fatal languor settled, flashed the light 
Of intellect, as a faint cry burst forth, 
I Oh ! mother ! — mother ! " 

Then there was a pause, 
A pang too deep for words. 

" Your mother sleeps 
In her cold grave, my son. You stood with me 
Beside its brink. Your little hand clasped mine 
Convulsively, at those sad, solemn words, 
' Ashes to ashes ! ' — when the clods fell down 
Upon the coffin-lid. Long months have pass'd, 
And every night your cheek was wet with tears 
For that dear mother. Say, have you forgot ? 
Or roves your mind in dreams ? Speak, dearest one." 
— And then the father rais'd that drooping head, 



214 THE DYING BOY. 

And laid it on his bosom, and bow'd down 
A listening ear close to those murmuring lips. 
But, till their last faint whisper died away, 
There was no sound of answer to his voice, 
Save, " Mother ! mother ! " 

Deem ye not he err'd S 
For she who at his cradle caught the flame 
Of that deep love which time may never quench, 
Perchance, was nearer to her son than you 
Who smooth'd the pillow for his fever 'd head, 
Calling yourselves the living. 

Ye, indeed, 
Have laid her in the grave, — but can ye say 
That her seraphic, soul-sustaining smile 
Beam'd not upon him ? — Can ye tell how warm, 
How early was her welcome to that clime 
Which hath no death-pang ? 

If celestial bands 
Feel for the unknown habitants of clay 
A hallowed train of guardian sympathies, 
And fold their wings around them as they run 
Time's slippery course, with what a flood of joy, 
At Heaven 's bright threshold, when all ills are past, 
A mother greets her child ! 

Tis o'er! 'Tis o'er! 
All earthly strife in that soft sigh doth end. 
Wrap the white grave-robe o'er the stainless form. 
And lay it by her side whose breast so long ' 



THE DYING BOY. 215 

Was the fond pillow for his golden hair. 
Write o'er his narrow tomb, " 'Tis well ! 'tis well ! " 
Then turn away and weep : — for weep we must, 
When our most beautiful and treasur'd things 
Fleet from this shaded earth. 

How can we see 
Our rifled bowers of rest in ruin laid 
Without a tear ? Yet He who wills the wound 
Can shed such balm-drops o'er the riven heart 
That its most poignant and deep-rooted grief 
Shall bear blest fruit in heaven. 



WIFE OF A MISSIONARY AT THE GRAVE 
OF HER HUSBAND. 



There was a new-made grave, 

On a far heathen shore, 
Where lonely slept a man of God, 

His mission-service o'er ; 
There, when the setting sun 

Had tinged the west with flame, 
A tender infant in her arms, 

A mournful woman came. 

Her youthful cheek was pale, 

Her fair form bending low, 
As thus upon the fitful gale 

She poured her plaint of woe, — 
" Friend of my inmost soul, 

The turf is on thy breast, 
And here amid the stranger's land 

Thy precious dust must rest. 

" Our helpless babe I bring, 
Who knew no father's love, 



WIFE OF A MISSIONARY, ETC. 217 

Who looked not on this world of pain, 

Till thou had'st risen above ; 
I lay him on thy bed, 

Unconscious tears to weep, 
Before our last farewell we take, 

And dare the faithless deep. 

" Oh, when the mountain wave 

Shall be our venturous path, 
And the loud midnight tempest howls 

In terror and in wrath, 
Thy manly arm no more 

My dearest prop must be, 
Nor thy strong counsel nerve my soul 

To brave the raging sea. 

" But, if our native coast 

Once more these feet should tread, 
And thou, the life of all my joys, 

Be absent with the dead, 
While each remembered scene 

Shall with thine image glow, 
And friend and parent name thy name, 

How shall I bear the woe ? 

" Is it thy voice, my love, 

That bids me bear the rod, 
And stay my desolated heart 

Upon the widow's God ? 



218 WIFE OF A MISSIONARY, ETC. 

Say'st thou, when every ray 
Of hope is quench 'd and dim, 

The widow and the fatherless 
Should put their trust in Him ? 

" How blest that Word Divine, 

On which my soul relies. 
The resurrection of the just, 

The union in the skies ! " — 
Faith came with heavenly light, 

Her struggling grief to quell, 
And in the holy words of prayer 

She spake her last farewell. 



PRAYER. 



" Peter, therefore, was kept in prison, — but prayer was made, without 
ceasing, of the church unto God for him." — Acts, xii., 5, 



He slept between two soldiers, bound with chains, 
Waiting the hour when wily Herod's hand 
Should point his martyr-doom. Yet still, he slept, 
Peaceful as the young babe. And, lo ! a light 
Gleam 'd o'er the dungeon-darkness, and a voice, 
Not of this earth, poured forth the high command, 
" Peter, — arise.'* 

Then the investing chains 
Melted from off his limbs, and he arose 
And rob'd himself, and girt his sandals on, 
And follow'd where the wondering messenger 
Guided, with shining track. The iron gate, 
That guarded portal of the city's wall, 
As if it knew Heaven's high ambassador, 
Turn'd on its massy hinge. So, on they pass'd, 
Free and unquestion'd, till the seraph's wing 
Outspread, in parting flight. With snowy trace 
Awhile it hover 'd, — then, like radiant star 



220 PRAYER. 



From its bright orbit- loos'd, went soaring up 
High o'er the arch of night. 

Then Peter knew 
The angel of the Lord, — for he had deem'd 
Some blessed vision held his tranced sight 
In strange illusion. 

With the voice of praise, 
His joyous steps a well-known threshold sought, — 
The home of Mary. Midnight reign 'd around, 
And heavy sleep hung o'er Jerusalem. 
Yet here they slumber 'd not A sigh arose 
Of ardent supplication, for the friend 
In durance and in chains. But can ye paint 
The astonish 'd gaze with which those tearful eyes 
Fix'd on his well-known features, as he stood, 
Sudden, amid the group ? 

High Heaven had heard 
The prayer of faith. And heard it not the breath 
Of gratitude, from every trembling lip, 
Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts, 
Whose holy angel had his servant freed 
From the high-handed malice of the Jews, 
And from the wrath of Herod ? 

Ye, who hold 
The key of prayer, that key which entereth heaven, 
How long will ye be doubtful of its power ? 
And choose earth's broken cisterns ? Say! how long ? 



PEACE. 



" Peace I leave with you." 

John, xiv., 27. 



" Peace," was the song the angels sang, 

When Jesus sought this vale of tears, 
And sweet that heavenly prelude rang, 

To calm the wondering shepherds' fears. — 
" War" is the word that man hath spoke, 

Convuls'd hy passions dark and dread, 
And vengeance hound a lawless yoke 

Even where the Gospel's banner spread. 

" Peace" was the prayer the Saviour breathed 

When from our world his steps withdrew, 
The gift He to his friends bequeathed 

With Calvary and the cross in view : — 
And ye whose souls have felt his love, 

Guard day and night this rich bequest, 
The watch-word of the host above, 

The passport to their realm of rest. 



TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND AT MOUNT 
AUBURN. 



I do remember thee. 

There was a strain 
Of thrilling music, a soft breath of flowers 
Telling of summer to a festive throng, 
That fill'd the lighted halls. And the sweet smile 
That spoke their welcome, the high warbled lay 
Swelling with rapture through a parent's heart, 
Were thine. 

Time wav'd his noiseless wand awhile, 
And in thy cherish'd heme once more I stood, 
Amid those twin'd and cluster 'd sympathies 
Where the rich blossoms of thy heart sprang forth, 
Like the moss rose. Where was the voice of song 
Pouring out glad and glorious melody ? — 



^8 



But when I ask'd for thee, they took me where 
A hallow'd mountain wrapt its verdant head 
In changeful drapery of woods, and flowers, 
And silver streams, and where thou erst didst love, 
Musing, to walk, and lend a serious ear 



TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND. 223 

To the wild melody of birds that hung 
Their unharm'd dwellings mid its woven bowers. 
Yet here and there, involv'd in curtaining shades 
Uprose those sculptur'd monuments that bear 
The ponderous warnings of eternity. 

So, thou hast pass'd the unreturning gate, 
Where dust with dust doth linger, and gone down 
In all the beauty of thy blooming years 
To this most sacred city of the dead. 
The granite obelisk and the pale flower 
Reveal thy couch. Fit emblems of the frail 
And the immortal. 

But that bitter grief 
Which holds stern vigil o'er the mouldering clay, 
Keeping long night-watch with its sullen lamp, 
Had fled thy tomb, and faith did lift its eye 
Full of sweet tears : for when warm tear-drops gush 
From the pure memories of a love that wrought 
For others' happiness, and rose to take 
Its own full share of happiness above, 
Are they not sweet ? 






MIDNIGHT MUSIC* 



What maketh music, when the bird 

Doth hush its merry lay ? 
And the sweet spirit of the flowers 

Hath sigh'd itself away ? 

* " The Rev. Mr. George Herbert, in one of his walks to Salisbury to join 
a musical society, saw a poor man, with a poorer horse, which had fallen 
under its load. Putting off his canonical coat, he helped the poor man to 
unload, and raise the horse, and afterwards to load him again. The poor 
man blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man. And so like was he 
to the good Samaritan, that he gave him money to refresh both himself 
and his horse, admonishing him also, ' if he loved himself, to be merciful to 
his beast.' Then, coming to his musical friends at Salisbury, they began 
to wonder that Mr. George Herbert, who used to be always so trim and 
neat, should come into that company so soiled and discomposed. Yet, 
when he told them the reason, one of them said that he had ' disparaged 
himself by so mean an employment.' But his answer was that, the thought 
of what he had done would prove music to him at midnight, and that the 
omission of it would have made discord in his conscience, whenever he 
should pass that place. * For if,' said he, ' I am bound to pray for all that 
are in distress, I am surely bound, so far as is in my power, to practise 
what I pray for. And though I do not wish for the like occasion every 
day, yet would I not willingly pass one day of my life without comforting 
a sad soul, or showing mercy, and I praise God for this opportunity. So 
now let us tune our instruments.' " 






MIDNIGHT MUSIC. 225 

What maketh music when the frost 

Enchains the murmuring rill, 
And every song that summer woke 

In winter's trance is still ? 

What maketh music when the winds 

In strong encounter rise, 
When ocean strikes his thunder-gong, 

And the rent cloud replies ? 
While no adventurous planet dares 

The midnight arch to deck, 
And, in its startled dream, the babe 

Doth clasp its mother's neck ? 

And when the fiercer storms of fate 

Wild o'er the pilgrim sweep, 
And earthquake-voices claim the hopes 

He treasur'd long and deep, 
When loud the threatening passions roar 

Like lions in their den, 
And vengeful tempests lash the shore, 

What maketh music then ? 

The deed to humble virtue born, 

Which nursing memory taught 
To shun a boastful world's applause, 

And love the lowly thought, 

15 



226 MIDNIGHT MUSIC. 

This builds a cell within the heart, 

Amid the blasts of care, 
And tuning high its heaven-struck harp, 

Makes midnight music there. 



EVENING BY THE SEA-SHORE. 



When fervid summer crisps the shrinking nerve, 

And every prismed rock doth catch the ray 

As in a hurning glass, 'tis wise to seek 

This city of the wave. For here the dews 

With which Hygeia feeds the flower of life 

Are ever freshening in their secret founts. 

Here may'st thou talk with the ocean, and no ear 

Of gossip islet on thy words shall feed. 

Send thy free thought upon the winged winds, 

That sweep the castles of an older world, 

And what shall bar it from their ivied heights ? 

— 'Tis well to talk with Ocean. Man may cast 
His pearl of language on unstable hearts, 
And, thriftless sower ! reap the winds again. 
But thou, all-conquering element, dost grave 
Strong characters upon the eternal rock, 
Furrowing the brow that holdeth speech with thee. 
Musing beneath yon awful cliffs, the soul, 
That brief shell-gatherer on the shores of time, 
Feels as a brother to the drop that hangs 
One moment trembling on thy crest, and sinks 
Into the bosom of the boundless wave. 

15 6 



228 EVENING BY THE SEA-SHORE. 

— And see, outspreading her broad, silver scroll, 
Forth comes the moon, that meek ambassador. 
Bearing Heaven's message to the mighty surge. 
Yet he, who listeneth to its hoarse reply, 
Echoing in anger through the channel'd depths, 
Will deem its language all too arrogant, 
And earth's best dialect too poor to claim 
Benignant notice from the star-pav'd skies, 
And man too pitiful to lift himself 
In the frail armour of his moth-crush 'd pride, 
Amid o'ershadowing nature's majesty. 



AFRAID TO DIE. 



" And deliver them who, through fear of death, were all their lifetime 
subject to bondage." — Hebrews, ii., xv. 



Afraid to die ! — afraid to sleep 

In earth, our mother's tranquil breast, 

Where snares and troubles vex no more, 
And all the weary are at rest ? 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to take 

His hand who trod the shadowy vale, 

And leads us on to pastures green, 
And living streams that never fail ? 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to bear 

The pang that but a moment tries, 

And, o'er the sway of pain and care, 
Ascend to mansions in the skies P 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to leave 
The cradle, and the worthless toy, 



230 AFRAID TO DIE. 

And take our ripen 'd being's crown, 
And soar to consummated joy ? 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to trust 

His promise who shall burst the tomb, 

And raise the renovated dust 

More glorious from its transient gloom ? 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to meet 
The guardian bands who watchful wait, 

And spread their radiant pinions wide 
To bear us through salvation's gate ? 

Afraid to die ! — prefer to be 
A stranger in these courts below, — 

A pilgrim, when the lights of home 

Bright through our Father's windows glow ? 

Afraid to die ! — ah ! what avails, 
Whether by sickness, storm, or fire ; 

The ethereal essence finds its place, 
And rises to the Eternal Sire ? 

Afraid to die ? — O grant us grace, 

Thou who didst dare the spoiler's strife, 

Calmly to meet his cold embrace, 
And soar to everlasting life. 



DEPARTURE OF MISSIONARIES FOR 
CEYLON. 



Wave, wide Ceylon, your foliage fair, 
Your spicy fragrance freely strew, 

See, ocean's threatening surge we dare, 
To bear salvation's gift to you. 

And, ye who long with faithful hand 
Have fondly till'd that favour'd soil, 

We come, we come, a brother-band 
To share the burden of your toil. 

Land of our birth ! we may not stay 
The ardour of our hearts to tell, 

Friends of our youth ! we dare not say 
How deep within our souls ye dwell. 

But when the dead, both small and great, 
Shall stand before the Judge's seat, 

When sea, and sky, and earthly state, 
All like a baseless vision fleet, 

The hope that then some heathen eye 
Thro' us, an angel's glance may raise, 

Bids us to vanquish nature's tie, 
And turn her parting tear to praise. 



CRY OF THE COMMAS. 



" Missionaries are going far beyond us, — but they come not to us. 
We have been promised a missionary, but can get none. God has given 
us plenty of corn, but we are perishing for want of instruction. Our 
people are dying every day. We have heard there is another life after 
death, but we know nothing of it." 



We see our infants fade. The mother clasps 
The enfeebled form, and watches night and day 
Its speechless agony, with tears and cries, 
But there's a hand more strong than her despair, 
That rends it from her bosom. Our young men 
Are bold and full of strength, but something comes ? 
We know not what, and so they droop and die. 
Those whom we lov'd so much, our gentler friends, 
Who bless our homes, we gaze, and they are gone. 
Our mighty chiefs, who in the battle's rage 
Tower 'd up like Gods, so fearless, and return 'd 
So loftily, behold ! they pine away 
Like a pale girl, and so, we lay them down 
With the forgotten throng who dwell in dust. 

They call it death, and we have faintly heard 
By a far echo o'er the distant sea 



CRY OF THE CORANNAS. 233 

There was a life beyond it. Is it so ? 
If there be aught above this mouldering mound 
Where we do leave our friends, — if there be hope, 
So passing strange, that they should rise again 
And we should see them, we who mourn them now, 
We pray you speak such glorious tidings forth 
In our benighted clime. Ye heaven-spread sails 
Pass us not by ! Men of the living God ! 
Upon our mountain-heights we stand and shout 
To you in our distress. Fain would we hear 
Your wondrous message fully, that our hearts 
May hail its certainty before we go 
Ourselves to those dark caverns of the dead 
Where everlasting silence seems to reign. 



GIFT OP A BIBLE. 



Behold the book, — o'er which, from ancient time, 
Sad penitence hath poured the prayerful breath, 

And meek devotion bowed with joy sublime, 
And nature armed her for the strife of death, 

And trembling hope renewed her wreath divine, 

And faith an anchor gained : — that holy book is thine. 

Behold the book, — whose sacred truths to spread 
Christ's heralds toil beneath a foreign sky. 

Pouring its blessings o'er the heathen's head, 
A martyr-courage kindling in their eye. 

Wide o'er the globe its glorious light must shine, 

As glows the arch of heaven : — that holy book is thine. 

Here search with humble heart, and ardent eye, 
Where plants of peace in bloom celestial grow ; 

Here breathe to mercy's ear the contrite sigh, 
And bid the soul's unsullied fragrance flow 

To Him who shuts the rose at even-tide, 

And opes its dewy eye when earliest sunbeams glide. 



GIFT OF A BIBLE. 235 

May Heaven's pure Spirit touch thy soften 'd heart, 
And guide thy feet through life's eventful lot ; 

That when from this illusive scene I part, 
And in the grave lie mouldering and forgot, 

This, my first gift, like golden link, may join 

Thee to that angel-hand around the Throne Divine. 



ON THE DEATH OE A FRIEND. 



She passeth hence, — a friend from loving friends, 

A mother from her children. Time hath shed 

No frost upon her, and the tree of life 

Glows in the freshness of its summer prime. — 

Yet still she passeth hence : her work on earth 

Soon done, and well. Hers was the unwavering mind, 

The untiring hand in duty. Firm of soul 

And pure in purpose, on the Eternal Rock 

Of Christian trust, her energies reposed, 

And sought no tribute from a shadowy world. 

Her early hope and homage clave to God, 

When the bright skies, the untroubled founts of youth, 

With all their song-birds, all their flowers, rose up 

To tempt her spirit. So, in hours of pain, 

He did remember her, and on her brow 

And in her breast, the dove-like messenger 

Found peaceful home. 

O thou, whom grieving love 
Would blindly pinion in this vale of tears, 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 237 

Farewell ! It is a glorious flight for faith 
To trace thy upward path, above this clime 
Of change and storm. We will remember thee 
At thy turf-bed, — and, mid the twilight hour 
Of solemn music, when the buried friend 
Comes back so visibly, and seems to fill 
The vacant chair, our speech shall be of thee. 



THE OLD MAN. 



Why gaze ye on my hoary hairs, 
Ye children, young and gay ? 

Your locks, beneath the blast of cares, 
Will bleach as white as they. 

I had a mother once, like you, 

Who o'er my pillow hung ; 
Kiss'd from my cheek the briny dew, 

And taught my faltering tongue. 

She, when the nightly couch was spread, 
Would bow my infant knee, 

And lay her soft hand on my head, 
And, bending, pray for me. 

But then there came a fearful day, — 

I sought my mother's bed ; 
Harsh voices warn'd me thence away, 

And told me she was dead. 



THE OLD MAN. 239 

I pluck'd a fair white rose, and stole 

To lay it by her side, 
And found strange sleep enchain 'd her soul, — 

For no fond voice replied. 

That eve I knelt me down in woe, 

And said a lonely prayer ; 
Yet still my temples seem'd to glow, 

As if that hand was there. 

Years fled, and left me childhood's joy, — 

Gay sports, and pastimes dear ; 
I rose a wild and wayward boy, 

Who scorn'd the curb of fear. 

Fierce passions shook me like a reed ; 

But ere, at night, I slept, 
That soft hand made my bosom bleed, 

And down I fell, and wept. 

Youth came, — the props of virtue reel'd, 

Yet still, at day's decline, 
A marble touch my brow congeal'd, — 

Blest mother, was it thine ? 

In foreign lands I travell'd wide, 
My full pulse bounding high ; 



240 THE OLD MAN. 

Vice spread her meshes at my side, 
And pleasure lur'd my eye ; 

Yet still that hand, so soft and cold, 
Maintain 'd a mystic sway, 

As when amid my curls of gold 
With gentle force it lay; — 

And with it sigh'd a voice of care, 

As from the lowly sod, 
(t My son, my only one, — beware ! 

Sin not against thy God." 

Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole 

My kindly warmth away, 
And dimm'd the tablet of the soul; — 

Yet when, with lordly sway, 

This brow the plumed helm display 'd, 
That awes the warrior throng ; 

Or beauty's thrilling fingers stray 'd 
These manly locks among. 

That hallow'd touch was ne'er forgot ; 

And now, though Time hath set 
That seal of frost which melteth not, 

My temples feel it yet. 



THE OLD MAN. 241 

And, if I e'er in heaven appear, 

A mother's holy prayer, — 
A mother's hand, and tender tear, 
Still pointing to a Saviour dear, 

Have led the wanderer there. 



16 



DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. 



Death's shafts are ever busy. The fair haunts 

Where least we dread him, and where most the soul 

Doth lull itself to fond security, 

Reveal his ministry ; and, were not man 

Blind to the future, he might see the sky, 

Even in the glory of its cloudless prime, 

Dark with that arrow-flight. 

They deemed it so 
Who marked thee like a stately column fall, 
And in the twinkling of an eye yield back 
Thy breath to Him who gave it. Yes, — they felt, 
Who saw thy vigorous footstep strangely chained 
Upon the turf it traversed, and the cheek, 
Flushed high with health, to mortal paleness turn'd, 
How awful such a rush from time must be. 
Thy brow was calm, yet deep within thy breast 
Were ranklings of a recent grief for her, 
The idol of thy tenderness, with whom 
Life had been one long scene of changeless love. 
Yea, thou didst watch the winged messenger 
In sleepless agony that bore her hence, — 



DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. 243 

And, when that bright eye darken 'd from whose beams 
Thine own had drank from youth its dearest joy, 
Upraised thine hands and gave her back to God. 
The bleeding of thy heart-strings was not stanched, 
Nor scarce the tear-gush dried, ere death's dire frost 
CongeaTd thy fount of life. 

Thy toil had been, 
In that brief interval, to bear fresh plants 
From the sweet garden which she loved to tend, 
And bid them on her burial -pillow bloom. 
But, ere the young rose, or the willow-tree, 
Had taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laid 
Low by her side. It was a pleasant place 
Methought to rest, — earth's weary labour done, 
Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs, 
And in her company whom thou didst choose, 
From all the world, to travel by thy side, 
Confidingly, — by deep affection cheer 'd, 
And in thy faith a sharer. 

From the haunts 
Of living men, thine image may not fleet 
Noteless away. They will remember thee, 
By many a word of witness for the truth, 
And many a deed of bounty. In the sphere 
Of those sublimer charities that gird 
The mind — the soul — thine was the ready hand : 
And for the hasting of that day of peace 
Which sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest prayer. 

16 b 



244 DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. 

In thine own house and in the church of God 
There will be weeping for thee. Thou no more 
Around thine altar shalt delight to see 
Thy children, and thy children's children, come 
To take thy patriarch blessing, — and no more 
Bring duly to yon consecrated courts 
Thy sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the rest 
Which earthly sabbaths dimly shadow forth, 
And to that ransomed family art risen 
Which have no need of prayer. 

But thou, O man ! 
Whose hold on life is like the spider's web, 
Who hast thy footing 'mid so many snares, 
So many pitfalls, yet perceivest them not, — 
Seek peace with Him who made thee, — bind the shield 
Of faith in Christ more firmly o'er thy breast, 
That, when its pulse stands still, thy soul may pass, 
Unshrinking, unreluctant, unamazed, 
Into the fulness of the light of Heaven. 



"NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH." 



Not dead? A marble seal is prest, 

Where her bright glance did part, 
A weight is on the pulseless breast, 

And ice around the heart ; 
No more she wakes with greeting smile, 

Gay voice, and buoyant tread, 
But yet ye calmly say the while, 

She sleeps, she is not dead. 

" Mourn st thou for clay alone? " Behold 

A voice from heaven replied, 
" Then be thine anguish uncontroll'd, 

Thy tears a heathen tide ; 
Thine idol was that vestment fair 

Which wraps the spirit free, 
Earth, air, and water, claim their share, 

Say ! which shall comfort thee ? 

But the strong mind whose heaven-born thought 
No earthly chain could bind, 



246 



NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH." 



The holy heart divinely fraught 
With love to all mankind, 

The humble soul whose early trust 
Was with its God on high, 

These were thy sister, who in dust 
May sleep, but cannot die" 



PRAISE. 



Put forth your leafy lutes, ye wind swept trees ! 
For well the sighing summer gales do love 
To play upon them. Often have I heard, 
When in fresh sweetness came the gentle shower, 
That pensive music at the fall of eve, 
And bless'd it in my loneliness of soul. 

Call forth, thou peopled grass, the weak- voiced tribes 
That dwell beneath thy lowly canopy, 
To wake their chirping chorus, while thy sigh, 
Waving in the soft breeze, the cadence fills. 
Utter your oral melody, ye streams, 
As, swift of foot, your mazy course you run, 
To the cool pillow of some mightier tide. 
And thou, old ocean ! robed in solemn state, 
Yield thy deep organ to the tempest's will, 
And, with the surges and the sweeping blasts, 
Pour such bold voluntary that the stars, 
Stooping to listen to thy thunder-hymn, 
Shall tremble in their spheres. 

Heart ! — strike thy harp, 
Join the full anthem of creation's praise, 
Ere thou shalt pour thy life-breath on the winds, 
And sleep the sleep of silence and the grave. 



FOLLY. 



" The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God " 

Psalm xiv. 



" No God I no God I " The simplest flower 

That on the wild is found 
Shrinks as it drinks its cup of dew, 

And trembles at the sound. 
"No God ! " Astonished echo cries 

From out her cavern hoar, 
And every wandering bird that flies 

Reproves the atheist-lore. 

The solemn forest lifts its head, 

The Almighty to proclaim, 
The brooklet, on its crystal urn, 

Doth leap to grave his name, 
High swells the deep and vengeful sea, 

Along his billowy track, 
And red Vesuvius opes his mouth, 

To hurl the falsehood back. 



FOLLY. 249 

The palm-tree, with its princely crest, 

The cocoa's leafy shade, 
The bread-fruit, bending to its lord, 

In yon far island-glade ; 
The winged seeds that, borne by winds, 

The roving sparrows feed, 
The melon on the desert- sands, 

Confute the scorner s creed. 

" No God ! " With indignation high 

The fervent sun is stirr'd, 
And the pale moon turns paler still 

At such an impious word ; 
And, from their burning thrones, the stars 

Look down with angry eye, 
That thus a worm of dust should mock 

Eternal Majesty. 



THE AGED CLERGYMAN. 



You will not see him more. — You whose young thoughts 

Blent with his image, — who to manhood grew 

Beneath the shelter of his saintly shade, 

Bringing your tender infants to his hand 

For the baptismal water, — who liv'd on 

Amid his teachings, till the silver hairs 

Came all unlook'd for, stealing o'er your brow, — 

You will not see him more. 

There was a place 
Where, duly as the day of God return 'd, 
His solemn voice held converse with the skies 
For you and yours, — till more than fourscore years 
Swept in deep billows o'er him. — You will hear 
That voice no more. — 

There stands his ancient house, 
Where, with the partner of his heart, he shar'd 
Affection's joys so long, and fondly mark'd 
His children and his children's children rise 
Clustering around his board. — 

Remember ye 
His cordial welcome ? — how he freely dealt 



THE AGED CLERGYMAN. 251 

A patriarch's wisdom, in monitions kind 

To all who sought him ? — how, with hallow'd grace 

Of bounteous hospitality, he gave 

Example of those virtues, pure and sweet, 

Which, round the hearth-stone rooting, have their fruit 

Where men are judg'd ? 

He linger'd with you late, 
Till all the lov'd companions of his youth 
Had gone to rest. — Yet so he lov'd your souls, 
That, for their sakes, he willingly sustain'd 
Life's toil and cumbrance, and stood forth alone, 
An aged oak, amid the fallen grove. 



His Master call'd. — 

It was the sabbath morn : 



And he had girded up his loins to speak 
A message in the temple. — Time had strown 
The almond-blossom, and his head was white 
As snows of winter, yet within his heart 
Glow'd the same temperate and unwavering zeal 
That nerv'd his youth. — 

But, lo ! the Master call'd. — 
So, laying down the Bible that he lov'd, 
That single weapon he so meek had borne 
Thro' all life's tribulation, he gave back 
The spirit to its Giver, and went home, — 
Yes, — full of honours as of days, — went home. 



PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES TO 
BIJRMAH. 



Native land ! in summer smiling, 

Hill and valley, grove and stream, 
Home ! whose nameless charms, beguiling, 

Peaceful lull'd our infant dream, 
Haunts ! through which our childhood hasted, 

Where the earliest wild-flowers grew, 
Church ! where God's free grace we tasted, 

Gems of memory's wealth, — adieu ! 

Mother ! who hast watched our pillow 

In thy tender, sleepless love, 
Lo, we dare the crested billow, 

Mother ! put thy trust above ! 
Father ! from thy guidance turning, 

O'er the deep our way we take, 
Keep the prayerful incense burning 

On thine altar, for our sake. 



PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES. 253 

Brothers ! sisters ! more than ever 

Seem our clinging heart-strings twin'd, 
As that hallow 'd bond we sever 

Which the hand of nature join'd: 
But the cry of pagan anguish 

Thro' our inmost hearts doth sound, 
Countless souls in misery languish, 

We would haste to heal their wound. 

Burmah ! we would sooth thy weeping, 

Take us to thy sultry breast, 
Where the sainted few are sleeping, 

Let us share a kindred rest : 
Friends ! our span of life is fleeting, 

Hark ! the harps of angels swell, 
Think of that eternal meeting 

Where no voice shall say farewell. 



"WHITHER SHALL I FLEE FROM 
THY PRESENCE." 

David. 



Take morning's wing, and fly from zone to zone, 

To Earth's remotest pole, and, ere old Time 

Can shift one figure on his dial-plate, 

Haste to the frigid Thule of mankind, 

Where the scant life-drop freezes. Or go down 

To Ocean's secret caverns, 'mid the throng 

Of monsters without number, which no foot 

Of man hath visited, and yet returned 

To walk among the living. Or the shroud 

Of midnight wrap around thee, dense and deep, 

Bidding thy spirit slumber. 

Hop'st thou thus 
To 'scape the Almighty, to whose piercing eye 
Morn's robe and midnight's vestment are the same ? 

Spirit of truth ! — why should we seek to hide 
Motive or deed from thee ? — why strive to walk 
In a vain show before our fellow-men ? 
Since at the same dread audit each must stand, 



" WHITHER SHALL I FLEE FROM THY PRESENCE." 255 

And with a sun-ray read his brother's breast 
While his own thoughts are weighed ? 

Search thou my soul ! 
And, if aught evil lurk securely there 
Like Achan's stolen hoard, command it thence, 
And hold me up in singleness of heart, 
And simple, child-like confidence in Thee, 
Till time shall close his labyrinth, and ope 
Eternity's broad gate. 



DEATH OF A BEAUTIFTJL BOY. 



I saw thee at thy mother's side, when she was marble cold, 
And thou wert like some cherub form, cast in ethereal 

mould ; 
But, when the sudden pang of grief oppressed thine infant 

thought, 
And mid thy clear and radiant eye a liquid crystal 

wrought, 
I thought how strong that faith must be that breaks a 

mother's tie, 
And bids her leave her darling's tears for other hands 

to dry. 

I saw thee in thine hour of sport, beside thy father's bower-. 
Amid his broad and bright parterre, thyself the fairest 

flower, 
I heard thy tuneful voice ring out upon the summer air, 
As though some bird of Eden poured its joyous carol there. 
And lingered with delighted gaze on happy childhood's 

charms, 
Which once the blest Redeemer loved, and folded in his 

arms. 



DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. 257 

I saw thee scan the classic page, with high and glad 

surprise, 
And saw the sun of science beam, as on an eaglet's eyes, 
And marked thy strong and brilliant mind arouse to bold 

pursuit, 
And from the tree of knowledge pluck its richest, rarest 

fruit ; 
Yet still from such precocious power I shrank with secret 

fear, 
A shuddering presage that thy race must soon be ended 

here. 

I saw thee in the house of God, and loved the reverent air 

With which thy beauteous head was bowed low in thy 
guileless prayer, 

Yet little deemed how soon thy place would be with that 
blest band 

Who ever near the Eternal Throne, in sinless worship, 
stand ; 

Ah, little deemed how soon the tomb must lock thy glo- 
rious charms, 

And wing thine ardent soul to find a sainted mother's 



17 



EVENING THOUGHTS. 



Come to thy lonely bower, thou who dost love 
The hour of musing. Come, before the brow 
Of twilight darkens, or the solemn stars 
Look from their casement. 'Mid that hush of soul, 
Music from viewless harps shall visit thee, 
Such as thou never heard'st amid the din 
Of earth's coarse enginery, by toil and care 
Urged on, without reprieve. Ah ! kneel and catch 
That tuneful cadence. It shall wing thy thought 
Above the jarrings of this time-worn world, 
And give the key-tone of that victor-song 
Which plucks the sting from death. 

How closely wrapt 
In quiet slumber are all things around ! 
The vine-leaf and the willow-fringe stir not, 
Nor doth the chirping of the feeblest bird, 
Nor even the cold glance of the vestal moon, 
Disturb thy reverie. Yet dost thou think 
To be alone ? — In fellowship more close 



EVENING THOUGHTS. 259 

Than man with man, pure spirits hover near, 
Prompting to high communion with the Source 
Of every perfect gift. Lift up the soul, 
For 'tis a holy pleasure thus to find 
Its melody of musing so allied 
To pure devotion • Give thy prayer a voice, 
Claiming Heaven's blessing on these sacred hours, 
Which, in the world's warped balance weighed, might 

yield 
But sharp derision. Sure they help to weave 
Such robes as angels wear; and thou shalt taste 
In their dear, deep, entrancing solitude 
Such sweet society, that thou shalt leave 
ce Signet and staff/' as pledges of return. 



]7 b 



AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTER'S 
GRAVE. 



Some of the pagan Africans visit the burial-places of their departed 
relatives, bearing food and drink ; — and mothers have been known, for a 
long course of years, to bring, in an agony of grief, their annual oblation 
to the tombs of their children. 



" Daughter ! I bring thee food; 

The rice-cake, pure and white, 
The cocoa, with its milky blood, 

Dates, and pomegranates bright, 
The orange, in its gold, 

Fresh from thy favourite tree, 
Nuts, in their ripe and husky fold, 

Dearest ! I spread for thee. 

" Year after year, I tread 

Thus to thy low retreat, — 
But now the snow-hairs mark my head, 

And age enchains my feet. 
! many a change of woe 

Hath dimmed thy spot of birth, 



AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTER'S GRAVE. 261 

Since first my gushing tears did flow 
O'er this thy hed of earth. 

" There came a midnight cry ; 

Flames from our hamlet rose ; 
A race of pale-browed men were nigh, — 

They were our country's foes: 
Thy wounded sire was home 

By tyrant force away, 
Thy brothers from our cabin torn, 

While in my blood I lay. 

" I watched for their return, 

Upon the rocky shore, 
Till night's red planets ceased to bum, 

And the long rains were o'er. 
Till seeds, their hands had sown, 

A ripened fruitage bore, 
The billows echoed to my moan, 

Yet they returned no more. 

" But thou art slumbering deep, — 

And to my wildest cry, 
When, pierced with agony, I weep, 

Dost render no reply. 
Daughter! my youthful pride, 

The idol of my eye ; — 
Why didst thou leave thy mother's side, 

Beneath these sands to lie ? " 



262 AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTER'S GRAVE. 

Long o'er the hopeless grave 

Where her lost darling slept, 
Invoking gods that could not save, 

That pagan mourner wept. 
O ! for some voice of power, 

To sooth her bursting sighs : — 
c * There is a resurrection hour ; 

Thy daughter's dust shall rise ! " 

Christians ! ye hear the cry 

From heathen Afric's strand, — 
Haste ! lift salvation's banner high 

O'er that benighted land : 
With faith that claims the skies, 

Her misery control, 
And plant the hope that never dies 

Deep in her tear-wet soul. 



DEATH-BED OF THE REV. DR. PAYSON. 



" The eye spoke after the tongue became motionless. Looking on his 
wife, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested on 
his eldest son, with an expression which was interpreted by all present to 
say, as plainly as if he had uttered the words of the beloved disciple, — 
* Behold thy mother ! '" 

Memoir of the Rev. Edward Payson. 



What said the eye ? The marble lip spake not, 

Save in that quivering sob with which stern death 

Crusheth life's harp-strings. Lo ! again it pours 

A tide of more than uttered eloquence — 

" Son! look upon thy mother," — and retires 

Beneath the curtain of the drooping lids 

To hide itself for ever. 'Tis the last, 

Last glance ! and, ah ! how tenderly it fell 

Upon that loved companion, and the groups 

Who wept around. Full well the dying knew 

The value of those holy charities 

Which purge the dross of selfishness away ; 

And deep he felt that woman's trusting heart, 

Rent from the cherished prop which, next to Christ, 

Had been her stay in all adversities, 

Would take the balm -cup best from that dear hand 



264 DEATH-BED OF THE REV. DR. PAYSON. 

Which woke the sources of maternal love ; 
That smile whose winning paid for sleepless nights 
Of cradle-care — that voice whose murmured tones 
Her own had moulded to the words of prayer. 
How soothing to a widowed mother's breast, 
Her iirst-born's sympathy. 

Be strong, young man ! 
Lift the protector's ann, the healer's prayer — 
Be tender in thine every word and deed. 
A spirit watcheth thee ! Yes, he who pass'd 
From shaded earth up to the full-orbed day, 
Will be thy witness in the court of Heaven, 
How thou dost bear his mantle. So, farewell, 
Leader in Israel ! Thou, whose radiant path 
Was like the angel's standing* in the sun, 
Undazzled and unswerving. It was meet 
That thou should'st rise to light without a cloud. 

* Revelations, xix., 17. 



MISSION HYMN. 



Onward ! onward ! men of heaven, 

Rear the Gospel's banner high; 
Rest not, till its light is given, — 

Star of every pagan sky. 
Bear it where the pilgrim-stranger 

Faints 'neath Asia's vertic ray ; 
Bid the red-browed forest-ranger 

Hail it, ere he fades away. 

Where the arctic ocean thunders, — 

Where the tropics fiercely glow, 
Broadly spread its page of wonders, 

Brightly bid its radiance flow. 
India marks its lustre, stealing, 

Shivering Greenland loves its rays, 
Afric, 'mid her deserts kneeling, 

Lifts the untaught strain of praise. 

Rude in speech, or grim in feature, 
Dark in spirit though they be, 






266 MISSION HYMN. 

Show that light to every creature, — 
Prince or vassal, — bond or free. 

Lo ! they haste to every nation ; 
Host on host the ranks supply ; 

Onward ! Christ is your salvation, — 
And your death is victory ! 



a 



BLESSED ARE THE DEAD." 



Come, gather to this burial-place, ye gay i 

Ye, of the sparkling eye, and frolic brow, 

I bid ye hither. She, who makes her bed 

This day neath yon damp turf, with spring -flowers sown, 

Was one of you. Time had not laid his hand 

On tress or feature, stamping the drear lines 

Of chill decay, till death had nought to do^ 

Save that slight office which the passing gale 

Doth to the wasted taper. No, — her cheek 

Shamed the young rose-bud ; in her eye was light 

By gladness kindled ; in her footsteps grace ; 

Song on her lips ; affections in her breast, 

Like soft doves nesting. Yet, from all she turned, 

All she forsook, unclasping her warm hand 

From friendship's ardent pressure, with such smile 

As if she were the gainer. To lie down 

In this dark pit she cometh, dust to dust, 

Ashes to ashes, till the glorious morn 

Of resurrection. Wondering do you ask, — 



268 " BLESSED ARE THE DEAD." 

Where is her blessedness ? Go home, ye gay, 
Go to your secret chambers, and kneel down, 
And ask of God. Urge your request like him 
Who, on the slight raft, mid the ocean's foam, 
Toileth for life. And when ye win a hope 
That the world gives not, and a faith divine, 
Ye will no longer marvel how the friend, 
So beautiful, so lov'd, so lured by all 
The pageantry of earth could meekly find 
A blessedness in death. 






TO MOURNING PARENTS. 



Tender guides, in sorrow weeping, 
O'er your first-born's smitten bloom, 

Or fond memory's vigil keeping 

Where the fresh turf marks her tomb, 

Ye no more shall see her bearing 

Pangs that woke the dove-like moan, 

Still for your affliction caring, 
Though forgetful of her own. 

Ere the bitter cup she tasted, • 

Which the hand of care doth bring, 

Ere the glittering pearls were wasted, 
From glad childhood's fairy string, 

Ere one chain of hope had rusted, 
Ere one wreath of joy was dead, 

To the Saviour, whom she trusted, 
Strong in faith, her spirit fled. 

Gone — where no dark sin is cherished, 
Where nor woes nor fears invade, 

Gone — ere youth's first flower had perished, 
To a youth that n'er can fade. 



272 sailor's funeral. 

The troubled fountains of the deep lift up 
Their subterranean portals, and he went 
Down to the floor of ocean, mid the beds 
Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul, 
'Mid all the funeral pomp with which this earth 
Indulgeth her dead -sons, was nought so sad, 
Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea 
Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth. 



THE DYING MOTHER'S PRAYER. 



I heard the voice of prayer — a mother's prayer — 
A dying mother for her only son. 

Young was his brow, and fair. 
Her hand was on his head, 
Her words of love were said, 

Her work was done. 

And there were other voices near her bed — 
Sweet, bird-like voices — for their mother dear 

Asking, with mournful tear. 
Ah, by whose hand shall those sad tears be dried, 
When one brief hour is fled, 
And hers shall pulseless rest, low with the silent dead ? 

Yes, there was death's dark valley, drear and cold ! 

And the hoarse dash of an o'erwhelming wave 
Alone she treads : is there no earthly hold, 
No friend — no helper — no strong arm to save ? 
Down to the fearful grave, 

18 



274 THE DYING MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

In the firm courage of a faith serene, 
Alone she press'd — 
And as she drew the chord 
That bound her to her Lord 
More closely round her breast, 
The white wing of the waiting angel spread 
More palpably, and earth's bright things grew pale. 
Even fond affection's wail 
Seemed like the far-off sigh of springs forgotten gale. 

And so the mother's prayer, 
So often breathed above, 
In agonizing love, 
Rose high in praise of G od's protecting care. 
Meek on his arm her infant charge she laid, 
And, with a trusting eye, 
Of Christian constancy, 
Confiding in her blest Redeemer's aid, 

She taught the weeping band, 
Who round her couch of pain did stand, 

How a weak woman's hand, 
Fettered with sorrow and with sin, 
Might from the king of terrors win 
The victory. 



DEATH OF A MISSIONARY IN AFRICA. 



There is a sigh from Niger's sable realm, 
A voice of Afric's weeping. One hath fallen, 
Who, with the fervour of unresting love, 
Allur'd her children to a Saviour's arms. 

Alone he fell, — that heart so richly filled 
With all affection's brightest imagery, 
In its drear stranger-solitude endured 
The long death-struggle, and sank down to rest. 

Say ye, alone he fell ? It was not so, 
There was a hovering of celestial wings 
Around his lowly couch, a solemn sound 
Of stricken harps, such as around God's throne 
Make music night and day. He might not tell 
Of that high music, for his lip was sealed, 
And his eye closed. And so, ye say, — he died P 
But all the glorious company of heaven 
Do say, — he lives, and that your brief farewell, 
Uttered in tears, was but the prelude-tone 
Of the full welcome of eternity. 

18 b 



DIRGE. 



Mourn for the living, and not for the dead." 

Hebrew Dirge, 



I saw an infant, marble cold, 

Borne from the pillowing breast, 
And, in the shroud's embracing fold, 

Laid down to dreamless rest ; 
And, moved with bitterness, I sighed, - 

Not for the babe that slept, 
But for the mother at its side, 

Whose soul in anguish wept. 

They bore a coffin to its place, — - 

I asked them, " Who was there ? " 
And they replied, " A form of grace ; 

The fairest of the fair." 
But for that blest one do ye moan, 

Whose angel-wing is spread ? 
No ; for the lover, pale and lone, — 

His heart is with the dead. 



DIRGE. 277 

I wandered to a new-made grave, 

And there a matron lay, — 
The love of Him who died to save, 

Had been her spirit's stay. 
Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain ; — 

Wail ye for her who died ? 
No ; for that timid, infant train, 

Who roam without a guide. 

Why should we mourn for those who die, — 

Who rise to glory's sphere ? 
The tenants of that cloudless sky 

Need not our mortal tear. 
Our woe seems arrogant and vain ; 

Perchance it moves their scorn, — 
As if the slave, beneath his chain, 

Deplored the princely born. 

We live to meet a thousand foes ; 

We shrink with bleeding breast, — 
Why should we weakly mourn for those 

Who dwell in perfect rest P 
Bound, for a few sad, fleeting years, 

A thorn-clad path to tread, 
O ! for the living spare those tears 

Ye lavish on the dead. 



BOY'S LAST BEQUEST. 






Half-raised upon his dying couch, his head 
Drooped o'er his mother's bosom, — like a bud 
Which, broken from its parent stalk, adheres 
By some attenuate fibre. His thin hand 
From neath the downy pillow drew a book, 
And slowly pressed it to his bloodless lip. 

" Mother, dear mother, see your birth-day gift, 
Fresh and unsoiled. Yet have I kept your word, 
And ere I slept each night, and every morn, 
Did read its pages, with my humble prayer, 
Until this sickness came." 

He paused — for breath 
Came scantily, and with a toilsome strife. 

u Brother or sister have I none, or else 
I'd lay this Bible on their hearts, and say, 
Come, read it on my grave, among the flowers : 
So you who gave it must take it back again, 
And love it for my sake." " My son! — my son, " 
Murmured the mourner, in that tender tone 



boy's last bequest. 279 

Which woman in her sternest agony 
Commands, to sooth the pang of those she loves — 
1 ' The soul ! — the soul ! — to whose charge yield 
you that ? " 

" Mother ! to God who gave it." So that soul 
With a slight shudder, and a lingering smile, 
Left the pale clay for its Creator's arms. 



THE PILGRIM. 



" I am not far from home, — therefore I need not make much provision 
for the way." 



I hear the rising tempest moan, 
My failing limbs have weary grown, 
The flowers are shut, the streams are dried, 
The arid sands spread drear and wide, — 
The night dews fall, the winds are high, — 
How far from home, O Lord, am I ? 

I would not come with hoards of gold, 

With glittering gems, or cumbrous mould, 

Nor dim my eyes with gather 'd dust 

Of empty fame, or earthly trust, 

But hourly ask, as lone I roam 

How far from home ? — how far from home ? 

Not far ! not far ! the way is dark, 
Fair hope hath quench'd her glow-worm spark, 
The trees are dead, beneath whose shade 
My youth reclin'd, my childhood play'd, 



THE PILGRIM. 281 

/** Red lightning streaks the troubled sky, 
How far from home, my God, am I ? 

Oh, find me in that home a place 
Beneath the footstool of thy grace; 
Tho' sometimes mid the husks I fed, 
And turn'd me from the children's bread ; 
Still bid thine angel-harps resound, 
The dead doth live, — the lost is found. 

Reach forth thy hand, with pitying care, 
And guide me through the latest snare ; 
Methinks, even now, in bursting beams 
The radiance from thy casement streams, 
No more I shed the pilgrim's tear ; 
I hear thy voice, — my home is near. 



TO THE MEMORY OF MISS HANNAH 
ADAMS. 



She was the author of a " View of Religious Opinions," " History of 
the Jews," and other works. She died, respected and beloved, at the 
age of seventy-six ; and was the first who was buried in the Mount Auburn 
Cemetery, near Boston. 



Gentle and true of heart ! I see thee still, 
Abstractly bending o'er the storied tome, 
While the deep lines of meditation steal, 
Unfrowning, o'er thy brow. I see thee still, 
Thine eye uprais'd at friendship's sacred smile, 
Pouring the heart's warm treasures freely forth, 
In guileless confidence. Methinks I hear 
That eloquence which sometimes bore thy soul 
High o'er its prison-house of timid thought, 
And round the ancient people of thy God, 
And on the hill of Zion, joyed to bind 
Its choicest wreath. Thy stainless life was laid 
A gift on virtue's altar, and thy mind, 
Commingling wisdom with humility, 
Passed on its sheltered pilgrimage in peace, 
Lonely — but not forgot. When thou didst mourn 
One generation of thy friends laid low, 



TO THE MEMORY OF MISS HANNAH ADAMS. 283 

Another came. Most fair and youthful forms, 

Such as man worshippeth, in the fond hour 

Of love's idolatry, did turn aside 

To seat them at thy feet, and strew thy home 

With offerings of fresh flowers. 'Twas sweet to see 

Beauty, and grace, and wealth, such tribute pay 

At wisdom's lowly shrine. Yes, they who moved 

On the high places of the earth came down 

To do thee honour, and to comfort thee 

With an untiring ardour. Say no more 

That humble merit, fashionless and poor, 

Hath none to lift it from its upas-shade, 

And guard its welfare with unswerving zeal 

Through the long vale of helplessness and age. 

It is not so. Thy grateful shade responds, 

It is not so. 

Farewell. Thy rest shall be 
In such companionship as thou hast loved 
Even from thy being's dawn; pure-breathing plants, 
Soft melodies of waters and of trees, 
The brightest, holiest charms of earth and sky : 
Nor yet unchronicled, or unbeloved, 
Of faithful memory, shall be thy sleep, 
Meek worshipper of nature and of God. 



THE DEPARTED FRIEND. 



O Friend ! — the light is deacl 
In thy fair mansion, — where in bright array 

Love mov'd with buoyant tread, 
And childhood's merry laughter, day by day, 
Made the heart glad, and music lent its zest, 
And hospitable smiles allur'd the welcome guest. 

And in the holy place 
A brow of beautiful and earnest thought, 

A form of manly grace, 
Are missing, — and we gaze with sorrow fraught 
Upon that vacant seat where beam'd for years 
That spirit-speaking eye, the pastor's toil that cheers. 

And from the couch of pain, 

The cell of want, — a voice hath pass'd away, 

Which sooth'd the suffering train ; 
And warn'd the smitten sinful man to pray ; — 
Which, till the verge of life, with accents clear, 
Told how a Christian's faith the hour of death can cheer. 



THE DEPARTED FRIEND. 285 

O Friend! — how great thy gain, — 
Thus borne in manhood's vigour to the skies, — 

Ere age, or wasting pain, 
Had chill'd the full fount of thy sympathies, 
Those sympathies that still with ardent glow 
Joy'd at another's joy, or mourn'd for other's woe. 

Hast thou embrac'd them there, 
Thy kindred, — tenants of yon world of bliss ? 
O, say, do angels share 
The sympathies so sweetly sown in this ? 

The nurtured 'neath one roof, — one native sky, — 
Meet they with changeless love where every tear is dry ? 

Ah ! hast thou seen his face 
Whom thy young hand with tender zeal did lead 

To seek a Saviour's grace ? 
That brother, who, God's flock ordain'd to feed, 
Touch'd with pure lip, the altar's living fire, 
And earlier found his place with Heaven's immortal choir. 

Say, — at the pearly gate 
Hail'd she thy coming, with a fond acclaim, 

She who, with hope elate, 
Taught thy young lisping tongue the Almighty's name 
And he, whose life clos'd like a hymn of praise, 
Thy patriarchal sire, — serene, and full of days ? 






286 THE DEPARTED FRIEND. 

Be silent, — ask no more, — 
Bow in deep reverence to the sacred dead, — 

No mortal thought may soar 
To their high ecstacy, unnam'd, and dread; - 
Wait till the temple's veil is rent for thee, 
And let God's will be thine, — heir of eternity. 



CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. 



" Lift up your heads, ye hallowed gates, and give 
The King of Glory room." 

And then a strain 
Of solemn, trembling melody inquired, 
w Who is the King of Glory." 

But a sound 
Brake from the echoing temple, like the rush 
Of many waters, blent with organ's breath, 
And the soul's harp, and the uplifted voice 
Of prelate, and of people, and of priest, 
Responding joyously — " The Lord of Hosts, 
He is the King of Glory." 

Enter in 
To this his new abode, and with glad heart 
Kneel low before his footstool. Supplicate 
That favouring presence which doth condescend, 
From the pavilion of high heaven, to beam 
On earthly temples, and in contrite souls. 

Here fade all vain distinctions that the pride 
Of man can arrogate. This house of prayer 
Doth teach that all are sinners — all have strayed 



288 



CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. 



Like erring sheep. The princely or the poor, 
The bright or ebon brow, the pomp of power, 
The boast of intellect, what are they here ? 
Man sinks to nothing while he deals with God. 



Yet, let the grateful hymn of those who share 

A boundless tide of blessings — those who tread 

Their pilgrim path, rejoicing in the hope 

Of an ascended Saviour — through these walls 

For ever flow. Thou dedicated dome ! 

May'st tbou in majesty and beauty stand : 

Stand, and give praise, until the rock-ribbed earth 

In her last throes shall tremble. Then dissolve 

Into thy native dust, with one long sigh 

Of melody, while the redeemed souls 

That, 'neath thine arch, to endless life were born, 

Go up, on wings of glory, to the " house 

Not made with hands." 



THE SACRED MINSTREL. 



The King of Israel sat in state, 

Within his palace fair, 
Where falling fountains, pure and cool, 

Assuag'd the summer air ; — 

fiut shrouded was the son of Kish, 

'Mid all his royal grace ; 
The tempest of a troubled soul 

Swept flashing o'er his face. 

In vain were pomp, or regal power, 
Or courtier's flattering tone, — 

For pride and hatred basely sat 
Upon his bosom's throne. 

He call'd upon his minstrel-boy, 
With hair as bright as gold, 

Reclining in a deep recess, 
Where droop'd the curtain's fold. 

19 



290 THE SACRED MINSTREL. 

Upon his minstrel-boy he call'd, 
And forth the stripling came, 

Bright beauty on his ruddy brow, 
Like morn's enkindling flame. 

<l Give music," said the moody king, 
Nor rais'd his gloomy eye, 

" Thou son of Jesse, bring the harp, 
And wake its melody." 

He thought upon his father's flock, 
Which long, in pastures green, 

He led, while flow'd, with silver sound, 
Clear rivulets between. 

He thought of Bethlehem's star-lit skies, 
Beneath whose liquid rays 

He gaz'd upon the glorious arch, 
And sang its Maker's praise. 

Then boldly o'er the sacred harp 
He pour'd, in thrilling strain, 

The prompting of a joyous heart, 
That knew nor care nor pain. 

The monarch, leaning on his hand, 
Drank long the wondrous lay ; — 

And clouds were lifted from his brow, 
As when the sunbeams play. 



THE SACRED MINSTREL. 29 i 

The purple o'er his heaving breast, 
That throbb'd so wild, grew still, 

And Saul's clear eye glanc'd out, as when 
He did Jehovah's will. 

O ye who feel the poison-fumes 

Of earth's fermenting care 
Steal o'er the sky of hope, and dim 

What Heaven created fair, 

Ask music from a guileless heart, — 
High tones, with sweetness fraught, 

And. by that amulet divine, 
Subdue the sinful thought. 



19 b 



"CHARITY BEARETH ALL THINGS.' 

St. Paul. 



The lion loves bis own. — The desert sands, 
High tossed beneath his burning foot, attest 
The rage, of his bereavement. With hoarse cries, 
Vindictive echoing round the rocky shores, 
The polar bear her slaughtered cub bewails ; 
While, with a softer plaint, where verdant groves 
Responsive quiver to the evening breeze, 
The mother-bird deplores her ravaged nest. 

The savage loves his own. — His wind-rocked babe, 
So rudely cradled 'mid the fragrant boughs, 
Or on its toiling mother's shoulders bound ; 
His forest sports, and fathers' graves, are dear. 

The heathen loves his own. — The faithful friend 
Who by his side the stormy battle dares, 
The chieftain, at whose nod his life-blood flows, 
His native earth, and simple hut, are dear. 

The Christian loves his own. But is his God 
Content with this, who, full of bounty, pours 
His sun-ray on the evil and the good, 
And, like a parent, gathereth round his board 



" CHARITY BEARETH ALL THINGS." 293 

The thankless with the just ? Shall man, who shares 
This unrequited banquet, sternly bar 
From his heart's brotherhood a fellow-guest ? 
Or hide revengeful poison, when the smile 
Of Heaven doth win him to the deeds of love ? 
Speak ! servants of that Blessed One who gave 
The glorious precept, " Love your enemies." 
Is it enough that ye should love your friends, 
Even as the heathen do ? 

God of strength, 
Be merciful ! and, when we duly kneel 
Beside our pillow of repose, and say, 
" Forgive us, Father, even as we forgive," 
Grant that the murmured orison seal not 
Our condemnation. 



THE RUINS OF HEROD'S PALACE. 






The traveller sat upon a stone, 

A broken column's pride, 
And o'er his head a fig-tree spread 

Its grateful umbrage wide, 
While round him fruitful valleys smil'd, 

And crystal streams ran by, 
And the far mountain's forehead, hoar, 

Rose up, 'tween earth and sky. 

But on a ruin'd pile he gaz'd, 

Beneath whose mouldering gloom 
The roving fox a shelter found, 

And noisome bats a tomb. 
'• Ho, Arab ! " for a ploughman wrought 

The grassy sward among, 
With marble fragments richly strew'd, 

And terrac'd olives hung. 

" Say, canst thou tell what ancient dome 
In darkness here declines, 



THE RUINS OF HEROD 's PALACE. 295 

And strangely lifts its spectral form 

Among the matted vines ? " 
He stay'd his simple plough, that trac'd 

Its crooked furrow nigh, 
And, while his oxen cross'd the turf, 

Look'd up with vacant eye. 

" It was some satrap's palace, sure, 

In old time, far away, 
Or, else, of some great Christian prince, 

I've heard my father say." 
u Arab ! — it was king Herod's dome ; 

'Twas there he feasted, free, 
His captains, and the chief estates, 

And lords of Galilee; 

" 'Twas there the impious dancer's heel 

Lur'd his rash soul astray." 
But, ere the earnest tale was told, 

The ploughman turn'd away. 
O ruthless king ! thy vaunted pomp 

And power avail thee not, 
Who here, beside thy palace-gates, 

Art by the serf forgot : 

But he whose blood in prison- cell 
By thy decree was spilt, 



296 THE RUINS OF HEROD's PALACE. 

Whose head, upon the charger brought, 

Appeas'd revengeful guilt, 
His name, amid a deathless page, 

Gleams forth like living gem, 
Touch'd with those glorious rays that gild 

The Star of Bethlehem. 






TOMB OF ABSALOM. 



Is this thy tomb, amid the mournful shades 

Of the deep valley of Jehoshaphat, 

Thou son of David ? Kidron's gentle brook 

Is murmuring near, as if it fain would tell 

Thy varied history. Methinks I see 

Thy graceful form, thy smile, thy sparkling eye, 

The glorious beauty of thy flowing hair, 

And that bright eloquent lip whose cunning stole 

The hearts of all the people. Didst thou waste 

The untold treasures of integrity, 

The gold of conscience, for their light applause, 

Thou fair dissembler ? 

Say, rememberest thou 
When o'er yon flinty steep of Olivet 
A sorrowing train went up ? Dark frowning seers, 
Denouncing judgment on a rebel prince, 
Pass'd sadly on ; and next a crownless king, 
Walking in sad and humbled majesty, 
While hoary statesmen bent upon his brow 



298 THE TOMB OF ABSALOM. 

Indignant looks of tearful sympathy. — 
What caused the weeping there ? 

Thou heard 'st it not ; 
For thou within the city's walls didst hold 
Thy revel, brief and base, And could 'st thou set 
The embattled host against thy father's life, 
The king of Israel, and the lov'd of God ? 
He, mid the evils of his changeful lot, 
Saul's moody hatred, stern Philistia's spear, 
His alien wanderings, and his warrior toil, 
Found nought so bitter as the rankling thorn 
Set, by thy madness of ingratitude, 
Deep in his yearning soul. 

What were thy thoughts 
When in the mesh of thine own tresses snared 
Amid the oak, whose quiet verdure mocked 
Thy misery ? Wert thou forsook by all 
Who shared thy meteor-greatness, and constrained 
To learn, in that strange solitude of agony, 
A traitor hath no friends ? — What were thy thoughts 
When death, careering on the triple dart 
Of vengeful Joab, found thee ? To thy God 
Rose there one cry of penitence, one prayer 
For that unmeasured mercy which can cleanse 
Unbounded guilt ? Or turned thy stricken heart 
Toward him who o'er thy infant graces watched 
With tender pride, and all thy sins of youth 
In blindfold fondness pardoned ? 



THE TOMB OF ABSALOM. 299 

Hark ! the breeze 
That sweeps the palm-groves of Jerusalem 
Bears the continuous wail, — " O Absalom ! 
My son ! my son ! " 

We turn us from thy tomb, 
Usurping prince ! Thy beauty and thy grace 
Have perished with thee, but thy fame survives — 
The ingrate son that pierced a father's heart. 



THE WIDOW'S PRAYER. 



The youthful maid, the gentle bride, 
The happy wife, her husband's pride, 
Who meekly kneel, at morning ray, 
The incense of their vows to pay, 
Or pour, amid their evening train, 
From love's full heart, the incense-strain, 
What know they of her anguish 'd cry 
Who lonely lifts the tearful eye, 
No sympathizing glance to view 
Her alter'd cheek's unearthly hue, — 
No soothing tone, to quell the power 
Of grief that bursts at midnight hour. 
O God ! her heart is pierc'd and bare, — 
Have pity on the widows prayer. 

Not like the mother, by whose side 

The partner sits, her guard and guide, 

Is hers who, reft of earthly trust, 

Hath laid her bosom's lord in dust ; 

Sleeps her young babe ! but who shall share 

Its waking charms, its holy care ? 



THE WIDOWS PRAYER. 301 

Who shield the daughter's opening bloom, 
Whose father moulders in the tomb ? 
Her son the treacherous world beguiles, — 
What voice shall warn him of its wiles ? 
What strong hand break the deadly snare ? — 
O answer, Heaven, the widow's prayer ! 

For not the breath of prosperous days, 

Though warm with joy and wing'd with praise, 

E er kindled such a living coal 

Of deep devotion in the soul 

As that wild blast, which bore away 

Her idol to returnless clay : — 

And, for the wreath that crown 'd the brow, 

Left bitter thoughts and hyssop-bough, — 

A lonely couch, a sever 'd tie, 

A tear that time can never dry, 

Unutter'd woe, unpitied care : — 

O God ! regard the widow's prayer. 



DEATH OF A MISSIONARY AT THE 
WEST, 

DROWNED AT A FORD OF THE KASKASKIA, 
IN THE STATE OK ILLINOIS. 



Cold sweep the waters o'er thee. Thou hast found, 

Mid all the ardour of thy youthful zeal, 

And self-devotion to thy Master's cause, 

An unexpected bed. The ice-swoln tides 

Of the Kaskaskia shall no more resound 

To the wild struggles of thy failing steed 

In that deep plunge which gave thy soul to God. 

Say, 'mid thy journeyings o'er the snow-clad waste 

Of yon lone prairie, on that fearful day, 

When death was by thy side, where dwelt thy thought ? 

Upon thy angel mission, or the scenes 

Of thy loved home, with all its sheltering trees 

And tuneful sound of waters ? 

Didst thou hope, 
When Heaven's pure seed should blossom in the soil 
Of the far Illinois, again to sit 
Around that fire-side and recount thy toils, 
And mingle prayers with those who fondly nursed 



DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. 303 

Thy tender infancy ? Now, there are tears 
In that abode whene'er thy cherished name 
Breaks from the trembling lip. O ! ye who mourn 
With hoary temples o'er the smitten son, 
Slain in his Saviour's service, know that pain 
Shall never vex him more. Peril and change, 
And winter's blast, and summer's sultry ray, 
And sinful snare, what are they now to him 
But dim-remembered names. If 't were so sweet 
To have a son on earth, where every ill 
Might point a sword against his heart, and pierce 
Your own through his, are ye not doubly blest 
To have a son in Heaven ? 



KEEP SILENCE. 



A SABBATH HYMN. 



Keep silence, pride ? — What dost thou here, 

With the frail sons of clay ? 
How dar'st thou in God's courts appear, 

Where contrite spirits pray ! 

Keep silence, wild and vexing care ! 

Six measur'd days are thine, 
Thy seed to sow, thy chaff to share, 

Steal not the day divine. 

Keep silence, sorrow ! — Faith can tell 

With what suhlime intent 
Thou to the bosom's inmost cell 

By Heaven's right hand wert sent. 

Keep silence, avarice ! — With thy hoard 

So boasted, yet so base, 
Think 'st thou the money-changer's board 

Hath here a fitting place ? 



" KEEP SILENCE." 305 

Keep silence, vain and worldly joy, — 

Foam on, time's tossing wave ! — 
Why lure him with a treacherous toy 

Who trembles o'er the grave ? 

Keep silence, earth ! — the Lord is here, 

Thy great Creator blest ! 
His work of wisdom form'd thy sphere, 

Keep thou His day of rest. 



20 



THE LIBRARY. 



Thou, whom the world with heartless intercourse 
Hath wearied, and thy spirit's hoarded gold 
Coldly impoverished, and with husks repaid, 
Turn hither. 'Tis a quiet resting-place, 
Silent, yet peopled well. Here inay'st thou iiold 
Communion eloquent, and undismayed, 
Even with the greatest of the ancient earth, 
Sages, and sires of sciences. These shall gird 
And sublimate thy soul, until it soar 
Above the elements. 

Doth thy heart bleed, 
And is there none to heal, — no comforter ? 
Turn to the mighty dead. They shall unlock 
Full springs of sympathy, and with cool hand 
Compress thy fevered brow. The poet's sigh 
From buried ages on thine ear shall steal, 
Like that sweet harp which soothed the wrath of Saul. 
The cloistered hero, and the throneless king, 
In stately sadness shall admonish thee 
How hope hath dealt with man. A map of woe 



THE LIBRARY. 307 

The martyr shall unfold, — till in his pangs 
Pity doth merge all memory of thine own. 
Perchance unceasing care, or thankless toil 
Have vex'd thy spirit, and sharp thorns prest deep 
Into the naked nerve. Then, hither come, — 
Great souls shall counsel thee. Old Plato's brow 
Blendeth reproof with calm benignity 
That trifles thus should move thee — Seneca 
Spreads to thy mind his richly reasoning page, — 
While Socrates a cordial, half divine, 
Pours o'er the drooping spirit. 

But hath Heaven 
Unveiled thy nature's deep infirmity, 
And shown the spots that darken all we call 
Perfection here ? Then seek the book of God ! 
Yea, come to Jesus ! — Author of our faith, 
And Finisher — doubt not His word shall be 
A tree of life to feed thy fainting soul, 
Till thou arise where knowledge hath no bound. 
And dwell a tireless student of the skies. 



•20 b 



SABBATH MEDITATIONS. 



Toss'd on the angry deep, with riven sails, 

The hark, long struggling 'gainst the tempest's wrath, 

Meets the rich perfume breath'd from land-born gales, 
And skims more lightly o'er her billowy path ; 

While the glad sailor marks the misty line 

Where his lov'd native hills, the blue horizon join. 

Spent, on his broken raft, the swimmer lies, 
A noteless speck 'mid ocean's stormy spray, 

While round his head the shrieking sea-gull flies, 
And warns her comrade of the expected prey. 

See ! see 1 the life-boat ! — Lo, its deck he gains, 

And 'mid protecting friends forgets his fearful pains. 

The traveller, faint amid the desert sands, 
Thinks of his native clime with bitter tear, 

Fast by his side his drooping camel stands, 

Hark, — to the cry of hope ! — a fountain near ! — 

A green oasis 'mid the burning plain, 

And neath the palm-tree shade he dreams of home again. 



SABBATH MEDITATIONS. 309 

And art not thou, O glorious sabbath-morn , 

A life-boat to the outcast on the main ? 
A sight of home to mariner forlorn ? 

A sound of waters 'mid the burning plain ? 
Bear to my soul thy blessing from on high, 
That day-spring of our God, whose beams shall never die. 

With holy words of psalmist and of seer, 

With penitential prayers, in secret born, 
With chant and worship of the temple dear, — - 

Come thou to me, O consecrated morn, — 
Descend and touch devotion's slumbering chord, 
And tell to listening faith the rising of her Lord. 

Yes, — raise me o'er the dust and care of life, 

A little way toward that celestial seat, 
Where, freed for aye from vanity and strife, 

The "just made perfect" in communion meet ; 
Show me their vestments, gleaming from the sky, 
Pour thro' heaven's opening gate their echoed minstrelsy, 

And I will thank thee, tho' to earth I turn, 
And all too soon from thy blest precepts stray, 

Though in my breast its fever- thirst should burn, 

And storm or shipwreck daunt my venturous way, — 

Still will I grasp thee as a golden chain, 

And twine thee round my heart until we meet again. 



DEATH OF A POET. 



Another master of the lyre hath swept 

His parting strain. Swan-like and sweet it rose, 

Yet sank unfinished. And me thought I heard 

Its melody in heaven, where harp and voice, 

For ever hymning the Eternal Name, 

Blend without weariness. No more he holds, 

Tender and sad, his night-watch o'er the dead, 

For he is where the spoilers icy foot 

Hath never trod, nor the dark seeds of grief 

In baleful harvest sprung. Twere sweet, indeed, 

A little longer to have drawn his smile 

Into the heart of love, and seen him do, 

With all his graceful singleness of soul, 

A Saviour's bidding. But be still — be still — 

Ye who did gird him up for heaven, and walk 

Even to its gates in his bless'd company. 

If he hath entered first, what then ? be still ! 

And let the few brief sands of time roll on, 

And keep your armour bright, and waiting stand 

For his warm welcome to a realm of bliss. 



LIFE'S EVENING. 



' Abide with us, for it is now evening, and the day of life is far spent,' 

Bishop Andrews. 



The bright and blooming morn of youth 

Hath faded from the sky, 
And many a cherish 'd bud of hope 

Is wither 'd, sere, and dry, — 
O Thou, whose being hath no end, 

Whose years can ne'er decay, 
Whose strength and wisdom are our trust, 

Abide with us, we pray. 

Behold the noon-day sun of life 

Doth seek its western bound, 
And fast the lengthening shadows cast 

A heavier gloom around, 
And all the glow-worm lamps are dead, 

That, kindling round our way, 
Gave fickle promises of joy ; 

Abide with us, we pray. 



312 



LIFE S EVENING. 



Dim eve draws on, and many a friend 

Our early path that bless'd, 
Wrapp'd in the cerements of the tomb, 

Have laid them down to rest ; 
But Thou, the Everlasting Friend, 

Whose Spirit's glorious ray 
Can gild the dreary vale of death, 

Abide with us, we pray. 



A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN. 



' I looked, and, behold, a door was opened in heaven." 

Revelations, iv., 81. 



It seemed not as a dream, and yet I stood 

Beside Heaven's gate. Its mighty valves were loosed, 

And upward, from earth's tribulation, came 

A soul, whose passport, signed in Calvary's blood, 

Prevailed. Around the golden threshold's verge 

I saw the dazzling of celestial wings 

Thronging to welcome it. The towering form 

Of an archangel bore it company 

Up to God's throne. Soft on my ear their tones, 

Serenely wafted by ambrosial gales, 

Fell like rich music. 

(C Wherefore didst thou pass 
Weeping along thy pilgrimage ? " inquired 
The sinless seraph. 

" Thorns beset my path. 
I sought and found not. I obtained and mourned, 
I loved and lost. Ingratitude and hate 
Did whet their serpent tooth upon my fame. — 



314 A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN. 

My wealth took wing. I planted seeds of bliss, 
And sorrow blossomed." 

But the risen from earth 
Faltered to mark that high archangel's glance 
Bent downward with surprise, as though it asked — 
" Had thy felicity no deeper root, 
Thou sky-born soul, for whom the Son of God 
Bowed to be crucified P " 

So when I saw, 
Or dreamed I saw, that even in Heaven might dwell 
Reproof and penitence, I prayed to look 
Ever upon that flood of light which gilds 
Each morning with its mercy, and whose beams 
Are brightened every moment, and to bear 
God's discipline with gladness ; that no tear 
For trials lost be shed beyond the grave. 



THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A 
FRIEND. 



That solemn knell, whose mournful call 
Strikes on the heart, I heard, 

I saw the sable pall 
Covering the form revered : 
And, lo ! his father's race, the ancient and the blest, 
Unlock the dim sepulchral halls, where silently they rest, 
And to the unsaluting tomb, 
Curtained round with rayless gloom, 
He entereth in, a wearied guest. 

To his bereaved abode, the fire-side chair, 

The holy, household prayer, 
Affections' watchful zeal, his life that bless 'd, 
The tuneful lips that soothed his pain, 
With the dear name of " Father " thrilling through his 
breast, 
He cometh not again. 
Flowers in his home bloom fair, 



316 THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND. 

The evening taper sparkles clear, 
The intellectual banquet waiteth there, 
Which his heart held so dear. 
The tenderness and grace 
That make religion beautiful, still spread 
Their sainted wings to guard the place — 

Alluring friendship's frequent tread. 
Still seeks the stranger's foot that hospitable door, 
But he, the husband and the sire, returneth never more. 

His was the upright deed, 
His the unswerving course, 
'Mid every thwarting current's force, 
Unchanged by venal aim, or flattery's hollow reed : 

The holy truth walked ever by his side, 
And in his bosom dwelt, companion, judge, and guide. 

But when disease revealed 
To his unclouded eye 
The stern destroyer standing nigh, 

Where turned he for a shield ? 
Wrapt he the robe of stainless rectitude 
Around his breast to meet cold Jordan's flood ? 
Grasped he the staff of pride, 
His steps through death's dark vale to guide ? 
Ah, no ! self- righteousness he cast aside, 
Clasping, with firm and fearless faith, the cross of Him 
who died. 



THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND. 317 

Serene, serene, 
He pressed the crumbling verge of this terrestrial scene, 
Breathed soft, in childlike trust, 

The parting groan, 
Gave back to dust its dust — 
To Heaven its own. 



MONODY TO MRS. HEMANS. 



Nature doth mourn for thee. 

There is no need 

For man to strike his plaintive lyre, and fail, 

As fail he must, if he attempt thy praise. 

The little plant that never sang "before, 

Save one sad requiem, when its blossoms fell, 

Sighs deeply through its drooping leaves for thee, 

As for a florist fallen. The ivy wreath 'd 

Round the grey turrets of a buried race, 

And the tall palm that like a prince doth rear 

Its diadem neath Asia's burning sky, 

With their dim legends blend thy hallow'd name. 

Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make 

Whate'er it touch'd more holy. The pure shell, 

Laying its pearly lip on Ocean's floor, 

The cloister 'd chambers, where the sea-gods sleep, 

And the unfathom'd melancholy main, 

Lament for thee, through all their sounding deeps. 

Hark ! from snow-breasted Himmaleh, to where 

Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud, 



MONODY TO MRS. HEMANS. 319 

From the scatb'd pine tree, near the red man's hut, 

To where the everlasting banian builds 

Its vast columnac temple, comes a moan 

For thee, whose ritual made each rocky height 

An altar, and each cottage home, the haunt 

Of Poesy. 

Yea, thou didst find the link 
That joins mute Nature to ethereal mind, 
And make that link a melody. 

The couch 
Of thy last sleep was in the native clime 
Of song, and eloquence, and ardent soul, — 
Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle, 
So lov'd of favouring skies, yet bann'd by fate, 
Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot, 
Close at whose heart the ever-pointed thorn 
Did gird itself. And so thy life-stream ooz'd 
In gushes of such deep and thrilling song, 
That angels, poising on some silver cloud, 
Might linger 'mid the errands of the skies, 
And listen, all unblam'd. 

How tenderly 
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest, 
And, like a nurse, with finger on her lip, • 
Watch, lest some step disturb thee, striving still 
From other touch, thy sacred harp to guard. 

Waits she thy waking, as the mother waits 



320 MONODY TO MRS. HEMANS. 

For some pale babe, whose spirit sleep hath stolen, 
And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven ? 
We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No. 
For every mountain-stream and shadowy dell 
Where thy rich harpings linger would hurl back 
The falsehood on our souls. Thou spak'st alike 
The simple language of the freckled flower, 
And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee. 
And from thy living intercourse with man 
Thou shalt not pass away, until this earth 
Drops her last gem into the dooms-day flame. 



FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 



Companion dear ! the hour draws nigh, 
The sentence speeds — to die, to die. 
So long in mystic union held, 
So close with strong embrace compell'd, 
How canst thou bear the dread decree 
That strikes thy clasping nerves from me ? 

— To Him who on this mortal shore 
The same encircling vestment wore, 
To Him I look, to Him I bend, 

To Him thy shuddering frame commend. 

— If I have ever caus'd thee pain, 

The throbbing breast, the burning brain, 
With cares and vigils turn'd thee pale, 
And scorn 'd thee when thy strength did fail — 
Forgive ! — forgive ! — thy task doth cease, 
Friend ! Lover ! — let us part in peace. 

— That thou didst sometimes check my force, 
Or, trifling, stay mine upward course, 

21 



322 FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 

Or lure from Heaven my wavering trust, 
Or bow my drooping wing to dust — 
I blame tbee not, the strife is done, 
I knew thou wert the weaker one, 
The vase of earth, the trembling clod, 
Constrained to hold the breath of God. 

— Well hast thou in my service wrought, 
Thy brow hath mirror'd forth my thought, 
To wear my smile, thy lip hath glow'd, 
Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flowed, 
Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies 

Of sweetly-varied melodies, 
Thy hands my prompted deeds have done, 
Thy feet upon mine errands run — 
Yes, thou hast mark'd my bidding well, 
Faithful and true ! farewell, farewell. 

— Go to thy rest. A quiet bed 

Meek mother earth, with flowers shall spread, 
Where I no more thy sleep may break 
With fever 'd dream, nor rudely wake 
Thy wearied eye. 

Oh, quit thy hold, 
For thou art faint, and chill, and cold, 
And long thy gasp and groan of pain 
Have bound me pitying in thy chain, 
Though angels urge me hence to soar 
Where I shall share thine ills no more. 



FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 323 

— Yet we shall meet. To sooth thy pain, 
Rememher — we shall meet again. 
Quell with this hope the victor's sting, 
And keep it as a signet-ring, 

When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast, 
And nought but ashes mark thy rest, 
When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark, 
And proud suns quench their glow-worm spark, 
Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom, 
Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. 

— Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fan*, 
Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear, 
And I, with hovering wing elate, 

The bursting of thy bonds shall wait, 
And breathe the welcome of the skj' — 
" No more to part, no more to die, 
Co-heir of immortality." 



21 b 



ZINZENDORFF. 



Twas summer in Wyoming. — 

Through the breast 
Of that fair vale, the Susquehannah roam'd, 
Wearing its robe of silver, like a bride. 
Now, with a noiseless current, gliding slow 
'Mid the rich velvet of its curtaining banks, 
It seem'd to sleep, — o'erwearied with the toil 
By which its roughly -guarded pass was won ; — 
Then hasting on, refreshing and refresh'd. 
Vaunting the glories of its sylvan home, 
It spread a mirror to the changeful cloud 
In crystal beauty, — 

From the towering hills 
That revel in the sunbeam, or retire 
Shrouded in mist, the gazing traveller drinks 
Such deep delight as only nature gives, 
When, in her garb of loveliness, she mocks 
Pencil, and power of speech. — Yon pictur'd chart 



326 ZINZENDORFF. 

Of lawn, and stream, and mountain's shadowy height, 
And rocks in quiet verdure meekly bower'd, 
Rebukes the pomp of cities, and the strife 
Of competition, and the lust of gold. 

— The landscape hath a legend : hurrying steps 
Of stately warriors, — valour, prompt and proud 
To guard its nested loves, — the fatal wile 
Of Indian ambuscade, — the madden'd shout 
Of massacre, — the flight of timid forms, 
And moan of sireless orphans. 

History's hand, 
And minstrel's art, have glean 'd these glowing tints, 
And wrought them deftly, like a crimson thread 
Into their tissues. 'Tis not mine to choose 
A theme so bold, — though I have trod the turf 
Whose greenness told what moisture nourish'd it, 
And ponder 'd pensive o'er that monument 
Where the last relics of the fallen brave 
Were gathered by their sons. Yes, I have mus'd 
'Mid that enchanted scenery, while the thrill 
From kindred bosoms, and the vision 'd past 
Was strong within my soul. Yet, 'tis not meet 
That I should tell of war, or woo the tones 
Of that high harp which, struck in England's halls, 
Hath made the name of Gertrude, and the lore 
Of sad Wyoming's chivalry, a part 
Of classic song. 



ZINZENDORFF. 327 

A wilder scene I seek, 
Ancient and barren, where the red man reign 'd 
Sole lord, before the usurping plough had dar'd 
A trace of subjugation, or the eye 
Of science, in its darkling bed, discern 'd 
The slumbering anthracite, which now doth draw 
Exploring thousands to its ebon throne, 
Like a swarth king of Afric. Then the arch 
Of the cloud-sweeping forest proudly cast 
A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe 
Had taught the monarch oak dire principles 
Of revolution, or brought down the pine, 
Like haughty baron from his castled height : — 
Thus dwelt the kings of Europe, — ere the voice 
Of the crusading monk, with whirlwind tone, 
Did root them from their base, with all their hosts, 
Tossing the red-cross banner to the sky, 
And pouring like a torrent o'er the wilds 
Of wondering Asia. 

The rude native tribes, 
Fast by the borders of the gentle strea m, 
Carv'd out their heritage, with rival heart, 
And hand uncourteous. There the Shawanese 
With surest arrow stay'd the flying deer, 
And the bold Delaware, with giant arm, 
Impell'd his swift canoe. In feudal pride 
Oft the fierce chieftains led their eager hosts 
To savage battle, or with oathless truce 



328 ZINZENDORFF. 

Drew back, to transient brotherhood, their hordes 
Of wrathful warriors. In their cone-roof 'd homes 
Some budding virtues sprung as best they might 
Beneath the chill and baleful atmosphere 
Of savage life. The dusky mother press'd 
Her new-born infant with a rapturous thrill 
Of unimagin'd love, and the glad sire 
Saw his young boy with eager skill maintain 
Against the opposing stream a venturous path, 
Or firmer knit his sinews in the chase. 
The lip of woman told the treasur'd lore 
Of other times, and 'mid the tasks and toils 
Of vassalage kept bright the historic chain, — 
As erst the vestal nurs'd the sacred fire. 

— The young kept silence, while the old man spake, 
And, bowing down before the hoary head, 

Rever'd the wisdom that doth wait on time. 

— But still the cloud of paganism did blight 
The blossom of their virtues, brooding dark 
With raven pinion o'er the gloomy soul. 

— I said that summer glow'd. — 

And with her came 
A white-brow'd stranger. Open as the day 
Was his fair, noble forehead, and his voice 
In its sweet intonations, threw a charm 
O'er rudest spirits. Not with more surprise 
Gaz'd the stern Druid, 'mid his mystic rites, 



ZINZENDORFF. 



329 



On good Augustine, teaching words of peace, 
What time, with hatred fierce and unsubdued, 
The woad-stain'd Briton in his wattled boat 
Quail'd 'neath the glance of Rome. 

Thus fixed the eye 
Of jealous chieftains and their wandering clans 
On ZinzendorfF. — Sought he to grasp their lands ? 
To search for gold ? to found a mystic throne 
Of dangerous power ? Where the red council -fire 
Disturb'd the trance of midnight, — long they sate 
Weighing his purpose with a cautious tone 
In grave debate. For scarce they deem'd it true 
That from a happy home, o'er ocean's wave, 
He thus should come to teach a race unknown 
Of joys beyond the tomb. Their fetter 'd minds 
Sank at the threshold of such bold belief, 
And, dim with ignorance, their sceptic eye 
The missionary scann'd. 

Yet some there were 
Who listen'd spell-bound to his charmed words ; 
The sick man drew them as the dew of heaven 
Into his bosom, children gathered near, 
To learn the name of Jesus, — pressing close 
To touch his garments, or to feel his hand 
Resting upon their heads. Such power hath love 
O'er sweet simplicity, ere sin hath taught 
Suspicion's lesson. 

By the bed of death 



330 ZINDENDORFF. 

The teacher stood, where the grim Sachem, fear'd 
By many tribes, found in his latest foe 
The first that conquer 'd him. That man of might 
Stretch 'd on his couch of skins, supinely lay, 
With every nerve unstrung. Around his hut, 
The deer's proud antler, and the wampum belt, 
Dispos'd 'mid gaudy implements of war, — 
The well-fill'd quiver, and the feathery plume, 
Show'd that pre-eminence which rank doth claim 
'Mid penury and pain. One youthful form, 
A lonely daughter, last of all his flock, 
Tended his dying pillow, with the care 
Of native tenderness. The water-gourd 
She wept as he rejected, — and her eye 
Gleam 'd through its tears so beautiful that none 
Who gazed remembered that her cheek was dark. 
She was a gentle creature, and uprose, 
Parting the raven tresses from her brow, 
And bowing down with reverent grace, to meet 
The man of God. 

He mark'd the mortal strife 
Draw near its close. Cold dews of suffering stood 
Upon the rigid temples, and the breath 
Was like that sob with which the swimmer breasts 
The surge that whelms him. Then a tone subdued, 
And tremulous with pity and with zeal, 
Breath 'd in his ear. 

" Chieftain ! the ice of death 



ZINZENDORFF. 331 

Is at thy breast. Doth aught disturb the soul, 
Or make its passage fearful ? " 

— No reply, 
Save one impatient gesture from the hand 
That seemed a skeleton's. 

" Hast thou not been 
A man of blood ? — Repent thee ! Speak the name 
Of Jesus the Redeemer. Let thy thought 
Ascend with mine, brother, while I plead 
Acceptance for thee at the gate of Heaven, 
Through Him who from the tyrant death can wrest 
The victory." 

But then a hollow voice 
Brake forth, like smother 'd thunders. 

" Go thy way, 
Thou Christian teacher ! I can deal with death 
Alone. Hence ! Hence ! I charge thee bring no soul 
That thou hast nurtur'd to the red man's heaven, 
No ! we will drive it thence. My glorious sires! " — 

— And then he murmur 'd what they could not hear, 

But ever and anon he fiercely rais'd 

His clenching hand as, in the battle strife, 

To draw the arrow to its utmost head, 

Or sway the cleaving hatchet. All in vain ; 

Like Priam's dart the airy weapon fell, 

For cold paralysis did work within 

The citadel of life. 



332 ZINZENDORFF. 

There was a pause 
Of awful stillness. Had the flickering lamp 
Fail'd in that passion-gust ? 

The daughter bent 
In agonizing dread, and wiped the dew 
That stood like drops of rain, and laid her cheek 
Close by the ghastly sleeper, — hoping still 
To hush him gently to a peaceful dream, 
As the meek mother lulls her troubled child. 
But, when no more the gasp, or fitful sigh 
Stole on her, breathless listening, — starting up, 
She threw the casement higher, and the breeze 
Blew freshly o'er his brow. Then first the pang 
Of poignant grief that rives the proudest soul 
Came over that young creature, and she cried, 
With a loud voice of misery, to him 
Who pray'd the Christian's prayer, that he would lift 
The voice of supplication for her sire, 
Ere it should be too late. There was a sound 
From that low couch, — a sudden gush of breath, 
As if the hollow grave with prison'd winds 
Did madly chafe. The eye unsealing, flash'd 
Strange fires, like frost-bound Hecla. Anger rush'd 
In furious storm-cloud o'er that tortur'd brow, 
Making death horrible. 

" And art thou false, 
False to our own Great Spirit P — dost thou turn, 
And pluck the wing that shelter'd thee ? I would 



ZINZENDORFJF. 333 

That he who hurls the lightning ! " But the curse 

Froze on his lip, and with a hideous groan 
As if in combat with some giant-foe, 
Who to his lion heart had found the way, 
He wrestled and fell back, to rise no more. 

— Then rose the sob of weeping, and the prayer 
Of earnest faith. It was a fearful scene, — 
Death, and young sorrow, and unearthly zeal, 
Dividing that low mansion. But the space 
Was brief for such companionship. The tramp 
And heavy tread of many hasting feet 
Came echoing o'er the threshold ; for the throng 
Who held their Sachem as a god did shrink, 
To see him die. But, now the deed was done, 
And the stern chief lay as the powerless babe, 
They who would tremble at his awful glance, 
And do his bidding with a spaniel's dread, 
Now, casting off their abject terror, stood 
Closest beside him. From the weaker sex 
Burst forth a tide of sympathy, to sooth 
The orphan maid : for pity cannot quit 
Her hold on woman ; whatsoe'er her garb 
Or lineament may be, howe'er the sun 
Hath burnt dark tints upon her, or the yoke 
Of vassalage and scorn have bow'd her low, 
Still doth her spirit at another's pain 
Vibrate, as the swept lyre. 



334 ZINZENDORFF. 

'Twas sad to see 
Those hoary elders pacing one by one, 
So slow and mournful from their fallen chief, 
And ranging in mute circle on the lawn 
Beside his dwelling. There a towering line 
Of warriors gather 'd, such as ne'er had blench 'd 
To follow where he pointed, tho' the earth 
Were saturate with blood, or the keen lance 
Of ambush glitter 'd thro' the quivering leaves. 
Now, sad of heart, with heads declin'd they stood, 
As men who lose the battle. Flocking still, 
Came mothers with their sons. A nation mourn 'd 
Like one vast family. No word was spoke, — 
Even as the friends of desolated Job, 
Finding the line of language all too short 
To fathom woe like his, sublimely paid 
That highest homage at the throne of grief, 
Deep silence. 

Now the infant morning rais'd 
Her rosy eyelids. But no soft breeze mov'd 
The forest lords to shake the dews of sleep 
From their green coronals. 

Close curtaining mist 
Hung o'er the quiet river, and it seem'd 
That Nature found the summer-night so sweet, 
She shunn'd the wakening of the King of Day. 
— But there, beneath a broad and branching elm, 



ZINZENDORFJF. 335 

Stood forth the holy man, in act to speak. 

There was a calmness on his pallid brow, 

That told of Heaven. His stainless life had flow'd 

Pure as his creed. Had the whole warring world 

With passion quaked, he would have made himself 

A green oasis 'mid the strife of tongues, 

And there have dwelt secure. 

Strong words, whose power 
Can tame the sinful heart, he boldly spake, 
And show'd, to penitence, the faith which heals 
The sting of death. The Gospel's glorious hope, 
Its rule of purity, its eye of prayer, 
Its foot of firmness on temptation's steep, 
Its bark that fails not 'mid the storm of death, 
He spread before them, and with gentlest tone, 
Such as a brother to his sister breathes, 
His little sister, simple and untaught, 
Allur'd them to the shelter of that ark 
Which rides the wrathful deluge. 

Not a breath 
Disturb 'd the tide of eloquence. So flx'd 
Were that rude auditory, it would seem 
Almost as if a nation had become 
Bronz'd into statues. Now and then a sigh, 
The unbidden messenger of thought profound, 
Parted the lip ; or some barbarian brow 
Contracted closer in a haughty frown, 



336 ZINZENDORFF. ' 

As scowl'd the cynic, 'mid his idol-fanes, 

When on Mars Hill the inspired apostle preach'd 

Jesus of Nazareth. 

The furrow 'd soil 
Was soft with sorrow. So the rain of heaven 
Sank deeper in. What seed was sown that hour, 
Eternity can tell. Brief human breath, 
Pour'd on the wind-harp of a hallow'd lip, 
Or one poor ink-drop on a lonely thought, 
May stir the mind of millions. 

Where a cliff 
Doth beetle rudely from the mountains breast, 
And, dripping with a chilly moisture, make 
Perpetual weeping, — was a lonely cave 
Rock-ribbed and damp. — There dwelt an aged man, 
Fear'd as a prophet by the unletter'd race 
Who sought his counsel when some work of guilt 
Did need a helper. Wondrous tales they told 
Of dark communion with the shadowy world, 
And of strange power to rule the demon-shapes 
That shriek'd and mutter 'd in his cell, when storms 
At midnight strove. Of his mysterious date 
The living held no record. Palsying age 
The elastic foot enchain'd, which erst would climb 
The steep unwearied — and the wither'd flesh 
Clos'd round each sinew with a mummy's clasp ; 
As if some gaunt and giant shape, embalm 'd 
At Thebes or Memphis, when the world was young, 



ZINZENDORFF. 337 

Should from its stain 'd sarcophagus protrude 
The harden 'd limb, and send a grating sound 
From the cold, lungless breast. 

And there he dwelt, 
Austere, — in such drear hermitage as seem'd 
Most like a tomb, gleaning from roots and herbs 
Scant nutriment. Fierce passions, brooding dark 
In solitude and abstinence, had made 
A hater of mankind. But when he heard 
Of the white stranger, with his creed of love 
Seducing red-men's hearts, hot seeds of wrath 
Smoulder 'd within his bosom, — like a fire 
Fed in some charnel house. Revenge he vow'd, 
And every day was one long troubled pause 
Of meditation on that dire resolve. 

— Thus he who taught to earth the taste of blood, 
Ere scarce that music of the stars was hush'd 
Which joyous o'er creation's cradle flow'd, 
Cover 'd the thought of murder in his heart, 

Till his red eye-balls started, and like flame 
Glar'd on his shepherd-brother, as he led 
On, by the living streams, his trusting flock. 

— So strong in that misanthrope's bosom wrought 
A frenzied malice, that his cavern's bound 

Oft echoed to hoarse shouts, as fancy drew 
The image of his enemy, and rais'd 
A mimic warfare. Then, uplifting high 

22 



338 ZINZENDORFF. . 

The tomahawk, he impotently dream 'd 
To have his will, — but, at each foil'd attempt, 
He curs'd the weakness of his blasted arm, 
In self-consuming madness. Every night 
Was one wild, tossing vision, — acting o'er 
The deed of murder, with a baffled aim, 
Yet deeming, at each random stroke, the foe 
Did multiply himself. 

At length, strong hate 
Wrought out its likeness in the savage breast 
Of three grim warriors. Listening oft and long 
To his dire incantations, forth they went, 
Once, when the pall of darkness veil'd the scene, ■ 
To do his purpose. Keenly were they arm'd, 
And inly fortified by every spell 
Which that dire necromancer could devise 
To bind obedience. Eagerly they sought 
The abode of ZinzendoriF. His lonely tent 
Rear'd its white bosom thro' embowering shades, 
As if some remnant of the wintry snow 
Did linger there. The earliest cluster'd grape 
Was in its purple flush, — and twilight's breath 
Betray 'd a chill, prelusive of the sway 
Of sober autumn. 

Through a narrow chasm 
In his slight screen, glar'd the assassins' eyes, 
As when the fierce and fell hyena finds 
A fleshless carcass. Stern, and hard of heart ! 



ZINZENDORFF. 339 

How can ye cleave the breast that thrills for you 
With generous sympathy ? But what know they 
Of soft compunction ? — train 'd from youth to tear 
The scalp fresh bleeding from the tortur'd brain, 
To mock the victim, writhing at the stake, 
Or hurl the mother, with her wailing babe, 
Into the wigwam's flame. 

Slow midnight came, 
In dark companionship with sullen storms, 
The red pine blazes in the old man's cave, 
And every moment mov'd with leaden feet, 
To him who traced it on the dial-plate 
Of mad impatience and unresting sin. 
At length, above the tempest's groan, is heard 
The sound of rushing steps. His blood-shot eyes 
Look'd fiery glad, — as when a tiger marks 
The unwary traveller near his jungle draw. 
And, as the mother of Herodias snatch 'd 
The reeking charger, and the sever 'd head 
Of John the Baptist, — so he thought to grasp 
The expected trophy of that soft, brown hair, 
Sprinkled with early grey. The warriors spake 
With troubled tone. 

" Father and prophet, hear ! 
We found him in his tent. Alone he sat, 
Like some unwelcom'd stranger. Pity came 
Into our breasts, so mournful was his brow. 
Still was his death-doom deep within our souls, 

22 b 



340 ZINZENDORFF. 

For so we promis'd thee. But then he bow'd 
His knee to earth, and with a tender voice 
Did pray for Indians. 

To the white man's God 
He bore our nation, with a brother's heart : 
Yea, even for our little ones besought 
A place in heaven. But still we firmly grasp 'd 
The murderous knife, for so we promis'd thee. 
Then, with a feathery instrument, he trac'd 
That speaking leaf by which the pale-fac'd men 
Bewitch and bow the mind. On the white page 
He seem'd to press his soul, and pour it out, 
As the bruis'd plant doth give its essence forth 
From every leaf and fibre. While we gaz'd, 
Lo ! the dread king of venemous serpents came, 
The fatal rattle-snake. So then we saw 
That our Great Spirit sent death's messenger 
To punish him. We waited to behold 
His swollen visage, and his eye suffus'd 
With mortal pain. 

Prophet ! we speak the truth ! 
Believe our words. Close coiling at his feet, 
With brightening tints, and wrath-enkindled eyes, 
The reptile lay ; but then, as if subdued 
By the meek magic of his beaming smile, 
Drew back the forked tongue, that, quivering, long'd 
To dart the o'erflowing poison, — and, with crest 
Erect and sparkling, glided slow away. 



ZINZENDORFF. 341 

Doubtless he is a god. We dared not raise 
The hand against him. For the power forsook 
Our limbs, and scarcely have we totter 'd here 
To bring thee tidings. Prophet ! bid no more 
His blood be shed. The deadly snake disarm'd, 
The might departing from our warrior-hearts 
That never blench'd in battle, or turned back 
From mortal man, bear witness, he is god." 

— A shriek rose sharply o'er the warring winds, 

" Hence, — base and woman-hearted ! Would this arm 
Might but one moment claim its ancient strength, 
And lay ye low. Hence ! See my face no more." 

— And so he drove them forth, tho' sounding rains 
Did roar like torrents down the rifted rocks, 

And lightnings, cleaving wide the trembling cloud, 
Blacken 'd the forest-pines. 

Time sped his wing, 
And on the Lehigh's solitary banks 
The missionary stood. O'er that smooth tide 
The pensive moon wrote out in pencil'd rays, 
The same deep language which his boyhood read 
Upon the billowy Rhine. Mild evening's breeze. 
Stirring the interlacing of the elms, 
And the slight reeds that fring'd the river's brink, 
Pour'd the same soul-dissolving sigh that swept 
His own Lusatian forests. And the voice — 
The writing, were of God. 



342 ZINZENDORFF. 

Serene he mus'd, 
And felt that every spot on earth's wide breast 
Was home to him, for there his Father dwelt, 
And all men were his brethren. On that hour 
Of high devotion, had the Spoiler stole, 
His step had been mistaken for the sound 
Of the soft rustling of angelic wings ; 
And the soul's welcome to the stroke that rends 
Its fond, yet strange affinity with clay, 
Had been sublime. 

To the believer, Death 
Is like the lion which the strong man slew, 
And the sweet bees did with their waxen robe. 
And food ambrosial, cover. 

He who found 
This blest enthusiasm nerve his weary heart, 
Like manna in the wilderness, — now toil'd 
As a colonial sire, and thoughtful plann'd 
'Mid shelter 'd valleys, and aspiring hills, 
Fit refuge for his brethren. Hence arose 
Fair Bethlehem, with all its pure retreats 
And peaceful hearths ; and still its classic dome, 
Where Education with the plastic mind 
Of childhood mingleth holiest elements, 
Doth venerate his name. 

But now the hour 
That took the shepherd from his simple flock 
Drew swiftly on : for still the cherish 'd form 



ZINZENDORFF. 343 

Of her whose cheek was pallid for his sake 

Blent with his every dream, — and thoughts of home, 

Sweet household music, long-remember'd tones, 

The far-off echoes of his stately halls, 

Had, like the voice of many waters, been 

Strong in his inmost soul, even while he spake 

Salvation's message to the forest-child. 

— His work of mercy done, the white sail spreads 
From that broad city's queenly breast which bears 
The filial impress of the Man of Peace, 
Who on the blended rivers bas'd his throne, 
And grav'd upon his signet-ring her name 
Of love fraternal. 

But, behold ! a throng 
In uncouth garments, and with savage port, 
Invade the parting scene. With wondering eye, 
But lip immoveable, they scan the domes, 
And groves, and gardens. Native pride restraint 
The voice of admiration, but the seal 
Of abject wretchedness seem'd deeper stamp'd 
Upon their forehead, as they mark'd a pomp 
111 understood, and felt in their own realm 
Their sceptre broken. Not more wildly gleam'd 
The tangled elf-locks of the astonish'd Gauls, 
Who, trampling on the majesty of Rome, — 
Saw her grave senate in their curule chairs, 
And deem'd them demi-gods. 



344 ZINZENDORFF. 

The red-brow'd sires, 
And the sad mothers with their little ones 
Fast by their side, and on their shoulders bound 
Their helpless infants, throng'd to deprecate 
The teacher's absence, and with tears implore 
A parting blessing. Kneeling on the strand, 
His tender supplication, by their sobs 
Oft interrupted, sought the ear of Heaven. 
— Long with despairing eye, they watch'd the bark 
Cutting its watery path. Methought their brows 
By misery furrow 'd o'er, in strongest lines, 
Like some deep-trac'd phylactery, reveal'd 
Prophetic sentence of their fated race, 
Which unrelenting destiny should waste, 
Till, like the mighty mastodon, it leave 
Nought save its bones among us. 

In the heart 
Of Zinzendorff, their murmur 'd farewell tones 
Dwelt, — a perpetual cadence, prompting oft 
The interceding prayer. It duly rose 
Ere the bright morn sprang up from Ocean's bed, 
Or when, amid his garniture of clouds, 
Purple and gold, the gorgeous Sun retir'd 
Into his kingly chamber. Then a voice 
As of a father for an outcast son, 
O'er whom his pity yearns, blent with the sigh 
And surging thunder of the sleepless wave, 



ZINZENDORFF. 345 

Bearing the sorrows of trie wondering tribes 
To Mercy's ear. 

Nor were their souls forgot 
By their kind shepherd, 'mid the joys of home, 
While neath his own baronial shades, he sought 
To spread a banner o'er the sect he loved, — 
That peaceful sect, which like the man who lean'd 
On Jesus' breast at supper, best imbib'd 
The spirit of his love. 

Hail ! ye who went 
Untiring teachers to the heathen tribes, 
And kneeling with your barbarous pupils, shap'd 
Their rude articulations into prayer. 
Ye fear'd nor tropic suns, nor polar ice, 
Nor subterranean cell. Ye did not shrink 
To plant the Tree of Life 'mid arctic frosts, 
That the poor Greenlander might taste its fruits, 
And, 'mid his rayless night, devoutly bless 
The Sun of Righteousness. Ye did not shun 
The savage in his ignorance, or loathe 
To share his hut. 

The passport to your care 
Hath been the sign of deepest wretchedness, 
The Ethiop forehead, and the name of slave. 
— Teach us your self-denial, — we who strive 
To pluck the mote out of our brother's creed, 
Till Charity's forgotten plant doth ask 



346 ZINZENDORFF. 

The water-drop, and die. With zeal we watch 
And weigh the doctrine, while the spirit 'scapes ; 
And in the carving of our cummin-seeds, 
Our metaphysical hair-splittings, fail 
To note the orbit of that star of love 
Which never sets. 

Yea, even the heathen tribes 
Who from our lips, amid their chaos dark, 
First heard the, " Fiat lux," — and joyous came 
Like Lazarus from his tomb, do, wilder 'd, ask 
What guide to follow ; for they see the men 
They dream 'd were angels, warring in their paths 
For Paul, and for Apollos, till they lose 
The certainty that they are one in Christ, — 
That simple clue, which thro' life's labyrinth 
Leads to Heaven's gate. 

Each differing sect, whose base 
Is on the same blest Word, doth strictly scan 
Its neighbour's superstructure, — point and arch, — 
Buttress and turret, — till the hymn of praise, 
That from each temple should go up to God. 
Sinks in the critic's tone. All Christendom 
Is one eternal burnishing of shields, 
And girding on of armour. So the heat 
Of border warfare checks Salvation's way. 
The free complexion of another's thought 
Doth militate against him, and those shades 
Of varying opinion and belief, 



ZINZENDORFF. 347 

Which, sweetly blended with the skill of love, 
Would make the picture beautiful, are blam'd 
As features of deformity. 

We toil 
To controvert, — to argue, — to defend, 
Camping amidst imaginary foes, 
And vision 'd heresies. Even brethren deem 
A name of doctrine, or a form of words, 
A dense partition- wall, — tho' Christ hath said, 
" See, that ye love each other!' 

So, come forth, 
Ye who have safest kept that Saviour's law 
Green as a living germ within your souls, 
Followers of ZinzendorfF, stand meekly forth, 
And, with the gentle panoply of love, 
Persuade the sister churches to recall 
Their wasted energies, and concentrate 
In one bright focal point their quenchless zeal : — 
Till from each region of the darken 'd globe 
The everlasting Gospel's glorious wing 
Shall wake the nations to Jehovah's praise. 



NOTES TO ZINZENDORFF. 



Page 325, line 8. 

Its roughly-guarded pass. 

The Susquehannah, after entering Luzerne county, Pennsylvania, 
breaks into the valley of Wyoming, near the mouth of the Lacka- 
wanna, through a narrow mountain chasm, rendered rugged by 
perpendicular rocks, and, after pursuing a serpentine course for 
twenty miles, breaks again out of the valley, at a similar pass, 
called the " Nanticoke gap." 

Page 326, line 5. 

The landscape hath a legend. 

The battle fought on the 3rd of July, 1778, between the Ameri- 
cans, under the command of Col. Zebulon Butler, and the British, 
led on by Col. John Butler, and a chieftain of mixed blood, named 
Brandt, is sometimes styled both in history and poetry, the " Wyo- 
ming massacre." 

Page 326, line 18. 

Where the last relics of the fallen brave 
Were gather d by their sons. 

" The occasion of our assembling in this spot is one of no com- 
mon interest : to witness the re-interment of the mutilated bones 
of our ancestors, and to perform the grateful duty of laying the 
corner-stone of their monument. This work of gratitude is destined, 
in the language of the eloquent Webster, to ' rise till it meet the 
sun in his coming, — till the earliest light of morning shall gild it, 
and the parting day linger and play upon its summit.' " — Oration 
of Chester Butler, Esq., on laying the corner-stone of the Wyoming 
Monument, July 3, 1833. 



350 NOTES TO ZINZENDOREF. 

Page 327, line 6. 

The slumbering anthracite. 

The beautiful vale of Wyoming is distinguished by the anthracite 
coal formation. This valuable mineral, as exhibited in that region, 
is unsurpassed in richness and brilliancy, and in quantity apparently 
inexhaustible. 

Page 328, line 23. 

A white -brow d stranger. 

Count Zinzendorff, a nobleman of Saxony, the restorer of the 
ancient church of the United Brethren, or Moravians, performed 
a mission to the Indians of Wyoming, in the year 1742. He is 
asserted to have been the first white person who had ever visited 
that portion of the Shawanese and Delaware tribes, who held domi- 
nion in the valley. 

Page 329, line 3. 
The woad-stairid Briton, in his wattled boat. 

The boats of the ancient Britons were composed of basket-work, 
covered with the skins of beasts. So much were these baskets ad- 
mired in Rome, and such quantities were exported there, that one 
of their satirical poets ridicules them as among the luxuries of his 
countrymen, more than a hundred years after the conquest of the 
British isles. 

Page 340, line 16. 

The fatal rattle-snake. 

" Zinzendorff was alone in his tent, seated upon a bundle of dry 
weeds that composed his bed, and engaged in writing, when the In- 
dians, who had determined to murder him, approached to execute 
their bloody commission. It was night, and the cool air of Sep- 
tember rendered a small fire necessary to his comfort. A curtain 
formed of a blanket, and hung upon pins, was the only guard to the 
entrance of his tent. The heat of the fire aroused a large rattle- 
snake, which crawled slowly into the tent, and passed over his feet 
undiscovered. At this moment, the assassins softly approached the 
door of his tent, and slightly removing the curtain, contemplated 
the venerable man, too deeply absorbed in meditation to notice 
either their approach or the venemous snake that lay extended 
before him. At this sight, even savage hearts shrank from their 
deadly purpose, and, suddenly quitting the spot, they bore tidings 
that the white man was in league with the Great Spirit."— Chap- 
man's History of [Vyoming. 



NOTES TO ZINZENDORFF. 351 

Page 342, line 21. 

Fair Bethlehem. 

Zinzendorff, during his second voyage to America, founded the 
colony of Bethlehem, — a spot celebrated both for its beauty of 
scenery, and its school, where the elements of piety are blended 
with the whole process of education, and presented to the young 
mind, as the source of daily joy, as well as of future felicity. 

Page 343, line 1. 

Of her whose cheek ivas pallid for his sake. 

His wife, the sister of the Prince of Reuss, was distinguished for 
every excellence, and, during his absence, took charge of his estates, 
and devoted their surplus income to the works of benevolence in 
which he delighted. 

Page 343, line 26. 

Saw her grave senate in their curule chairs, 
And deemed them demi-gods. 

When the victorious Gauls, under Brennus, entered Rome, they 
found the ancient senators sitting in their order, in the Forum, 
undaunted and unmoved. Their splendid habits, their majestic 
gravity, and venerable countenances, awed the barbarians into 
reverence, and they offered them adoration, as tutelary deities. 

Page 345, line 5. 

Neath his own baronial shades, he sought 
To spread a banner o'er the sect he lovd. 

Zinzendorff's estate of Bertholsdorf, in Lusatia, was a refuge for 
persecuted Moravians. He, with the countess, continually ex- 
tended to them patronage and assistance. By them, the settlement 
of Hernnhut was protected and cherished, from whence the first 
missionaries went forth to the West Indies and to Greenland, 
somewhat more than a century since. 

Page 345, line 17. 

That the poor Greenlander might taste its fruits. 

The centennial anniversary of the Moravian missions in Green- 
land was celebrated on the 20th of January, 1833, with great joy 
and gratitude among the different congregations established by 
those devoted servants of the cross, in that inclement clime. 



352 



NOTES TO ZINZENDORFF. 



Page 345, line 24. 

The Ethiop forehead, and the name of slave. 

More than 40,000 of the converts connected with the 214 mis- 
sion stations maintained by the United Brethren, in different parts 
of 4 the globe, are either dwellers in Africa, or slaves in the West 
India islands. 

Page 346, line 3. 
And in the carving of our cummin-seeds. 

" Antoninus Pius, from his desire to search into the least differ- 
ences, was called ' cumini sector,' — the carver of cummin-seeds." 
—Fuller's Holy State. 



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